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THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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POEMS 


FLORUS  B.  PLIMPTON 


ILLUSTRATED. 


CINCINNATI: 

MRS.   F.    B.   PLIMPTON. 
1886. 


COPYRIGHT 

MRS.  F.  B.  PLIMPTON 


r'kh- 
M    DOMALO    -. 

>  IN'  ISWATI 


Co  our  Cousin 

flftrs.  (Beorae  s.  Iborner 

?  beloveo  bE  tbe  Butbor  of  tbese 
Poems,  ano  bi? 

a.  a.  p. 


761014 


1  have  found  a  resource  and  comfort  in  the  preparation 
of  my  husband's  poems  for  collection  and  publication.  They 
were  mainly  written  in  his  early  youth,  and  I  read  in  them 
of  his  joys  and  sorrows,  and  of  his  faith,  when  the  days  of 
weariness  came,  in  the  higher  life  where  all  is  light.  This 
will  be  a  very  precious  book  if  others  can  see  it  with  my 
eyes.  Whatever  is  not  worthy  belongs  to  the  fond  temerity 
of  the  gleaner. 

C.A.  PLIMPTON. 


HE   WHO    HATH   TOI.D    HIS   MORTAL   DAYS 
AND   PASSED    BEYOND   THK   VOICK   OF    PRAISE, 
FROM    SONG'S   FULL   SERVICE   WAS    DEIJARRKD. 
HE   TOILSOME    DAYS   AND   NIGHTS    DID   GUARD, 
TO   WHICH    THE    RECORDS    IN   THESE    LEAVES 
WERE   WELCOME   PERIODS   AND   REPRIEVES. 
YET   NONE   THE    LESS,    IN    HOUR    OF    NEED, 
WITH    GENEROUS    FAITH    HE    BADE    THEM    SPEED, 
WHO,    HALF    IN    FEAR    AND    HOPEFUL    HALF, 
PIERIAN    WATERS   SOUGHT   TO    OUAFF. 


KUITH    M.    'I  HOMAS. 


MEMOIR. 

LORUS  BEARDSLEY  PLIMPTON  was  born  September  4,  1830, 
in  Palmyra,  Portage  Co.,  Ohio.  His  father,  Billings  O.  Plimpton, 
who  reached  the  age  of  ninety,  and  who  died  the  day  after  the 
death  of  his  son  Florus,  removed  from  Connecticut  in  the  early 
part  of  the  century,  and  connected  himself  with  the  Pittsburg 


I  Conference  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  retaining  an  itinerant 
connection  with  it  until  the  Erie  Conference  was  erected,  when  he 
/i\  was  set  off  with  that  branch  of  the  itinerant  work.  He  was  one  of 
the  few,  if  not  the  last  of  the  original  members  of  that  body.  Shortly 
after  entering  upon  his  ministerial  labors  in  Northern  Ohio,  he  married  Miss 
Eliza  Merwin,  youngest  daughter  of  one  of  the  early  settlers  of  the  Reserve. 

Florus  was  the  third  son  of  this  union.  He  received  a  common  school  and 
academic  education,  remaining  on  his  father's  farm  in  Hartford,  Trumbull 
County,  O.,  till  seventeen  years  of  age,  when  he  entered  Allegheny  College, 
Meadville,  Pa.  In  the  spring  of  1851  he  connected  himself  with  James  Dumars  in 
the  publication  of  the  Western  Reserve  Transcript  at  Warren,  Trumbull  County. 

In  the  summer  of  1852  he  accepted  an  invitation  to  edit  a  Whig  campaign  paper 
at  Niles,  Mich.  At  the  close  of  that  political  struggle  he  returned  to  Ohio,  and  was 
associated  with  John  S.  Herrick  in  conducting  the  Portage  Whig,  published  at 
Ravenna.  During  his  residence  in  this  town  he  married  Miss  Cordelia  A.  Bushnell, 
of  Hartford,  Trumbull  County,  June  2,  1853.  In  the  following  spring  he  moved  to 
Elmira,  N.  Y.,  where  he  was  engaged  until  the  spring  of  1857  in  the  publication  of 
the  Elmira  Daily  Republican,  and  a  weekly  campa'gn  paper  in  1856.  In  1857  he 
accepted  a  position  in  the  city  department  of  the  Pittsburg  Daily  Dispatch,  soon  be 
coming  one  of  its  associate  editors.  In  1860  he  became  one  of  the  staff  of  the 
Cincinnati  Daily  Commercial,  and  his  labors  with  it  and  with  the  Commercial 
Gazette  continued  without  interruption  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen'ury,  and  were  of  an 
unusually  important  character,  breadth  and  responsibility.  Late  in  1885  he  was  pros 
trated  by  his  first  serious  illness.  He  passed  to  rest  April  23,  1886,  deeply  mourned 
by  many  loving  friends,  residing  in  almost  every  part  of  the  Union.  In  accordance 
with  his  request,  made  a  long  period  before  his  decease,  his  remains  were  cremated. 


INTRODUCTION 
BY   MURAT  HALSTEAD. 


L  times,  during  the  quarter  of  a  century  in  which  we  were 
associated  in  business  and  knew  each  other  with  intimacy,  and 
shared  in  making  up  the  estimates  of  current  events  that  called 
for  the  mutual  understanding  of  opinions  and  sympathies,  Mr. 
Plimpton  and  myself  were  separated  for  weeks  and  months, 
sometimes  with  the  Atlantic  ocean  between  us,  but  we  \vere  never 
both  long  away  from  Cincinnati,  and  I  find  it  most  difficult  to 
realize  that  he  is  on  the  journey  to  "The  undiscovered  country 
from  whose  bourn  no  traveller  returns;"  and  when  I  absent  myself 
from  the  office  and  come  back,  the  old  habit  of  enjoyment  of  his 
greeting  asserts  itself  with  surprising  strength  ;  and  the  conscious 
ness  that  "the  rest  is  silence"  between  us,  strikes  with  a  painful  jar 
as  it  suddenly  grows  clear.  We  had  so  many  things  to  think  of  together,  and 
there  were  themes  which  I  referred  to  him  so  constantly,  that  the  custom  of 
doing  so  seemed  fixed  ;  and  still,  as  the  endless  duties  of  the  occupation  in 
which  we  were  so  closely  engaged  arise,  I  involuntarily  appropriate  his  well 
remembered  talents  day  after  day,  to  perform  the  old  tasks,  forgetful  for  the 
moment  that  at  last,  and  at  least,  "the  weary  are  at  rest." 

Country  boys,  born  in  Ohio,  with  many  kindred  experiences  and  aspira 
tions,  hopes,  themes,  ambitions  and  disappointments,  in  early  youth,  we 
found  ourselves  when  a  little  above  the  age  of  thirty  years,  on  the  same 
newspaper,  subject  to  the  limitations  of  an  intelligent  and  inflexible 
authority  —  that  of  the  controlling  .  proprietor,  M.  D.  Potter  —  and  with  un 
bounded  opportunities  for  hard  work.  It  happened  that  I  had  been  some 
thing  over  seven  years  engaged  in  the  Cincinnati  Commercial  Office,  when 
Mr.  Plimpton  was  introduced.  He  came  to  fill  the  situation  that  Mr.  Potter 
alwaj's  regarded  the  one  most  difficult  to  supply  on  the  daily  press  —  that 
of  the  writer  of  dramatic  and  musical  criticism.  How  Mr.  Plimpton  came 
to  be  recommended  in  that  capacity  to  Mr.  Potter,  I  never  knew  or  have 
totally  forgotten.  My  recollection  is  distinct  that  Mr.  Plimpton  was  immedi 
ately  seen  to  be  a  quiet  man,  who  did  his  work  well  and  said  very  little  about 
it.  Presently  there  was  observed  in  his  paragraphs,  a  touch  at  once  fine  and 


xii 

forcible,  and  after  a  time,  without  noise  or  friction,  his  work  grew  in  promi 
nence  and  his  position  as  a  writer  and  one  relied  upon  for  good  things 
formed  itself.  Without  displacing  or  conflicting  with  any  one  he  became  a 
part  of  our  force,  and  was  at  the  front — no  favors  shown,  but  a  favorite. 

Abraham  Lincoln  was  elected  President,  and  the  rising  storm  of  Southern 
rebellion  darkened  the  air.  The  Commercial  Office  had  about  three  years  before 
parted  with  Henry  Reed,  one  of  the  strongest  writers  ever  on  the  American 
press,  and  my  own  mind,  that  had  been  largely  instructed  in  editorial  duties 
under  his  influence,  had  not  fully  asserted  itself  in  the  expression  of  final 
opinions,  and  while  I  had  gone  into  the  Chase  campaigns  in  Ohio,  and  the 
Fremont  national  campaign  with  zeal,  Mr.  Reed  had  held  back  and  checked 
my  enthusiasm  with  his  conservative  political  philosophy.  When  he  was 
gone,  I  found  those  about  me  going  faster  instead  of  slower  in  the  popular 
current  than  I  was  disposed  to  go.  Mr.  Potter's  general  orders  were  very 
simple.  The  Commercial  had  to  support  the  cause  of  free  territories — which 
speedily  became  that  of  the  free  States. 

As  the  discussion  of  the  duty  of  the  General  Government  in  the  presence 
of  State  rebellion  progressed,  and  the  various  compromises  and  expedients 
looking  to  reconciliation  were  tested  and  found  wanting — as  the  border 
State  propositions,  that  those  who  had  elected  Lincoln  should  surrender, 
were  found  inapplicable,  and  the  view  that  he  should  make  his  submission 
to  the  slave  power,  then  rampant  and  threatening,  was  known  to  be  inadmis 
sible,  and  the  theory  that  there  should  be  a  convention  of  all  the  States  to 
make  a  permanent  adjustment  of  difficulties,  otherwise  the  peaceful  separa 
tion  of  the  conflicting  sections,  was  seen  to  be  as  impossible  as  inexpedient, 
my  associate  in  editorial  labor  was  A.  R.  Spofford,  who  has  long  been 
librarian  of  Congress,  and  who  held  the  pen  of  a  very  ready  and  strong 
writer,  and  while  possessed  of  a  vast  fund  of  information,  was  wonderfully 
ready  and  accurate  in  quoting  the  teachings  of  history  and  the  texts  of 
literature. 

The  fact  that  Mr.  Plimpton  had  very  clearly  defined  opinions  upon  the 
questions  of  the  day  gradually  became  manifest  to  me,  and  I  was  the  more 
interested  because  of  the  discovery  that  he  was  a  more  radical  person  than 
myself;  that  he  believed  in  the  application  of  the  most  thorough  remedies 
for  public  wrongs  and  popular  delusions.  There  was  novelty  in  this.  I 
had  been  accustomed  to  influences  that  pulled  or  pushed  in  the  other 
direction.  One  remembrance  is,  that  I,  far  more  than  others,  believed  from 
the  first  in  the  terrible  earnestness  of  the  Southern  people.  I  was  sure  the 
South  meant  war,  and  the  people  of  the  North  were  exceedingly  slow  to 
reach  that  state  of  comprehension.  My  opportunities  had,  however,  been 
better  than  those  of  any  other  man  to  know  the  state  of  the  country,  for 
I  was  the  only  one  who  saw  the  hanging  of  John  Brown,  and  the  exciting 
scenes  of  the  following  winter  in  Congress,  which  I  studied  from  the 


Xlll 


galler}-,  and  who  attended  the  Democratic  national  and  sectional  conventions 
of  1860,  in  Charleston,  Richmond  and  Baltimore. 

The  first  pronounced  opinion  from  Mr.  Plimpton,  dissenting  from  the 
course  of  the  Commercial  under  my  direction,  was  concerning  a  series  of 
articles  that  suggested  rather  than  advocated  a  convention  of  all  the  States, 
with  the  purpose  of  reaching  a  solution  of  sectional  difficulties  without  war, 
even  if  the  final  result  might  be  that  the  Slave  States  should,  like  "wayward 
sisters,"  as  General  Scott  said,  some  months  later,  "depart  in  peace." 

It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  such  a  programme  as  this  would  be  carried 
out.  Of  course  there  were  insuperable  difficulties.  We  had  only  to  look 
closely  into  the  situation  to  see  that.  But  it  was  fashionable  to  propose  ways 
and  means  for  the  avoidance  of  an  appeal  to  arms,  and  this  for  a  time  seemed 
a  possible  diversion  from  the  direct  headlong,  awful  drift  to  war.  The  people 
of  the  North  generally  did  not  believe  the  South  would  fight.  The  Southern 
people  held  the  like  opinion  of  the  North.  I  knew  both  were  mistaken, 
and  suggested  the  convention  of  all  the  States,  and  went  so  far  as  to  say 
that  the  cotton  would  be  as  white  and  the  wheat  as  golden,  after  the  Slave 
States  had  set  up  for  themselves,  as  before.  This  was  not  good  politics, 
though  it  may  not  have  been  bad  poetry,  and  I  refer  to  it  as  marking  the 
time  I  ascertained  that  the  new  man  Plimpton  was  a  well-read  politician, 
a  Republican  in  principle  and  of  clear  cut  and  resolutely  held  convictions. 

More  than  once  I  have  taken  pleasure  in  saying  that  the  mistakes  in  the 
management  of  the  Cincinnati  Commercial,  while  Mr.  Plimpton  and  I  were 
so  closely  associated,  were  mine,  not  his,  and  that  errors  of  policy  were 
usually,  almost  uniformly  against  his  protest.  He  saw  earlier  and  clearer 
and  more  constantly  than  I,  the  greatness  of  the  figures  in  the  war  of 
Lincoln  and  Grant,  and,  whatever  was  true  of  others,  had  no  prejudices  to 
indulge  against  those  who  were  faithful  in  the  service  of  the  imperiled 
country.  I  must  confess  that  I  was  always  slow  to  believe  in  new  great 
men  ;  and  they  came  upon  us  in  flocks  in  war  time.  There  had  to  be  a 
good  deal  accomplished  besides  the  playing  of  Hail  to  the  Chief  by  brass 
bands,  before  I  could  see  the  evidences  that  names  until  then  but  narrowly 
known,  were  to  be  blown  across  the  whole  world  and  into  everlasting  and 
overwhelming  glory,  by  the  trump  of  fame. 

Mr.  Plimpton's  intuition,  delicate  as  a  woman's,  was  not  unfrequently 
superior  to  my  carefully  weighed  information  and  close  calculation.  He  was 
in  nothing,  except  his  ever  present  integrity,  more  admirable  than  in  his 
sense  of  humor,  and  his  writings  that  are  most  pleasing  are  those  that  dis 
play  the  charming  tints  of  his  jovial  fancy  and  the  rippling  lines  of  rhyme 
in  which  his  fun  became  poetic.  And  yet  there  are  but  few  examples  of  his 
touching  serious  subjects  with  a  spirit  of  levity.  There  were  many  things 
in  politics  and  religion  that  he  had  no  talent  for  laughing  nt.  He  could  not 
draw  the  fine  lines  so  as  to  balance  between  declarations,  and  neither  affirm 


XIV 


nor  deny,  though  it  was  not  essential  or  important  to  pronounce  for  either ; 
and  he  was  not  comfortable  when  it  was  the  officially  imposed  duty  to  pose 
on  the  high  and  sharp  fences  of  independent  journalism ;  and  personal 
journalism  never  was  his  pleasure. 

His  articles  would  commit  the  paper  decidedly.  The  roads  he  traveled 
were  always  straight,  and  he  was  for  or  against  Tom,  Dick  or  Harry  all 
the  year  round.  The  strength  of  conviction  and  keenness  of  purpose,  that 
were  his  characteristics  in  combat,  were  too  intense  in  him  for  a  long  course 
of  badinage  or  a  tedious  policy  of  finesse.  In  public  affairs  he  was  nothing 
if  not  in  earnest.  In  the  first  campaign  of  our  prodigious  and  unwieldy 
militar}'  operations,  Mr.  Plimpton  won  his  spurs  as  a  war  correspondent. 
He  and  Major  Bickham  contributed  largely  and  acceptably  to  our  columns 
from  Western  Virginia,  but  after  this  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  be  the 
historian  of  General  Sherman's  command  in  Kentuck}',  Sherman  refusing  to 
consent  to  the  presence  of  representatives  of  the  press,  the  work  of  the  office 
grew  in  importance  and  demanded  closer  attention  and  more  strenuous  labors. 
The  press  was  in  a  transition  state,  and  the  circulation  and  business  generally 
of  the  newspapers  increased  rapidly,  requiring  changes  in  machinery  and 
methods,  and  binding  those  employed  in  a  round  of  cares  ever  enlarging  and 
becoming  more  weighty  and  exacting.  Mr.  Plimpton's  career  as  a  war  cor 
respondent  was  closed — with  the  exception  of  an  episode  including  his  pres 
ence  at  the  battle  of  Antietam — by  the  augmentation  of  the  estimate  placed 
upon  the  excellence  of  his  editorial  work  ;  and  when  Mr.  Spofford  took  prac 
tical  charge  of  the  library  of  Congress  as  first  assistant,  Mr.  Plimpton's  place 
became  that  of  associate  editor,  and  he  held  it  "until  his  strength  failed 
him  at  length." 

We  never  had  quarrels,  but  we  had  many  differences.  It  was  because 
we  were  unlike  in  our  mental  structure  that  we  harmonized.  My  seven 
years  in  the  office  of  the  Commercial  before  he  came,  and  the  impression  I 
had  been  able  to  make  upon  editorial  labors  and  the  acquirement  of  confi 
dence  and  facility,  gave  me,  as  Mr.  Potter's  health,  which  had  long  been 
feeble,  decisive!}-  declined,  the  first  place  of  responsibility,  and  as  is  often  the 
case,  the  Lieutenant  did  not  invariabh'  or  even  habitually  see  things  along 
the  same  lines  of  light  the  Captain  viewed  them.  Indeed  it  is  often  desirable 
that  an  object  shall  be  observed  from  standpoints  that  make  with  it  acute 
and  even  obtuse  angles.  Mr.  Plimpton  and  I  seldom  were  in  direct  antagonism 
in  the  consideration  of  a  subject,  but  we  often  stood  to  it  in  such  relations 
that  if  the  right  lines  had  been  described  there  would  have  been  drawn  a 
right  angled  triangle. 

Mr.  Plimpton  was  incapable  of  intrigue  or  indirection.  We  always  knew 
where  he  was,  and  what  he  meant  and  stood  for.  His  integrit}-  was  so  sure 
that  there  was  no  hesitation  in  trusting  it ;  and  in  the  delicate  adjustments 
of  the  relations  of  the  newspaper  to  individuals,  and  the  complications  of 


XV 


general  and  local  matters,  he  was  ever  unselfish  and  faithful,  rejecting  oppor 
tunities  to  celebrate  the  things  that  were  near  to  him  personally,  for  the  sake 
of  preserving  the  traditions  and  the  steady  course  of  the  common  policy. 
This  is  hard  to  do  sometimes,  but  the  ground  upon  which  it  can  be  done  is 
cleared,  when  we  regard  a  great  journal  not  so  much  an  individual  expression 
as  a  public  institution  and  maintain  its  discipline  for  the  preservation  of  its 
dignity. 

The  time  of  the  work  of  Mr.  Plimpton  on  the  Cincinnati  Commercial  and 
the  Commercial  Gazette,  was  just  about  twenty-five  years.  He  was  well 
trained  before  he  came,  in  North-eastern  Ohio,  in  Elmira,  New  York,  and  in 
Pittsburg.  His  labors  in  Cincinnati  extended  over  the  most  interesting  period 
of  the  history  of  our  country,  and  were  addressed  to  the  enlightenment  of  our 
constituency  on  a  vast  variety  of  subjects.  Volumes  of  his  writings  might 
be  selected  from  the  files  which  form  for  each  old  established  paper  a  library 
of  its  own ;  and  there  are  veins  of  gold,  that  the  historians  who  turn  over 
the  ample  leaves  upon  which  he  wrote,  will  have  need  to  appropriate  for  the 
fine  metal  of  the  coin  of  truth  that  is  to  circulate  through  the  generations 
that  will  not,  and  indeed  could  not,  search  for  themselves  into  the  mass  of 
newspaper  literature. 

Upon  one  subject  Mr.  Plimpton  and  myself  were  never  quite  serious ;  it 
was  that  of  our  literary  productions  when  we  were  very  young  men  ;  his 
ballads  and  my  novelettes.  We  were  a  shade  tender  about  those  unconscious 
confessions  of  our  youth.  But  we  were  so  far  from  the  days  in  which  we  first 
saw  ourselves  in  print,  as  to  be  able  to  look  as  disinterested  spectators  upon 
our  immature  selves ;  and  we  respected,  I  am  glad  to  say,  the  boys  who  had 
so  early  and  fondly  and  foolishly  fancied,  they  could  do  something  for — even 
add  to  the  romantic  literature  of  the  ideal  West — the  West  that  never  was  in 
the  wilderness,  and  never  will  be  in  this  world.  I  knew  well  long  ago  that 
while  I  should  ask  the  forgiveness  of  forgetfulness  for  my  crude  Indian  and 
rural  stories,  written  to  learn  to  write  for  the  press,  and  out  of  want  of  occupa 
tion,  there  was  something  in  the  poetry  of  Plimpton  that  was  rare  and  precious. 
Boy  and  man,  through  the  changes  of  forty  years  he  found  in  poetry  the  finer, 
higher,  truer  expression  of  himself.  Loving  hands  have  preserved  with 
wonderful  care  that  has  rewarded  itself,  the  poems  that  were  the  flowers  of  a 
life  of  labor  always  hard  and  often  barren,  and  that  was  full  of  the  inherent 
and  impulsive  qualities  that  are  the  springs  of  poetry — a  life  whose  chief 
happiness  was  in  the  fervent  faith  that  the  earth  was  beautiful  and  mankind 
good. 

In  the  collection  that  follows  is  one  of  those  treasures  that  add  to  the 
riches  that  do  not  perish.  No  one  can  be  so  acutely  sensitive  to  their  imper 
fections  as  he  was,  whose  heart  and  mind  speak  and  sparkle  in  them.  He 
valued  them  lightly  because  he  was  not  a  vain  man,  and  they  told  of  himself 
and  had  an  inner  radiance  for  him.  He  touched  the  harp  because  it  comforted 


XVI 


him.  There  were  things  to  say  that  could  not  otherwise  be  said ;  there  were 
tones,  rays  of  light,  to  trace  through  melodies  unheard  b}r,  and  illuminations 
invisible  to  others — pathways  into  the  infinite  space  that  seemed  to  promise 
the  divine  achievement  of  the  humanly  unattainable.  There  are  those  who 
knew  and  loved  him,  certainly,  and  I  believe  many  others,  to  whom  these 
unostentatious  utterances  will  be  preferred  to  formal  pomp  and  artificial 
splendor ;  and  for  the  audience  of  the  fit,  whether  many  or  few,  they  will  be 
refreshing  like  a  mountain  rill  or  a  bough  laden  with  roses,  or  the  flavor  of  the 
clover  fields  and  tasseling  corn,  or  the  bloom  of  the  locust  and  apple  trees  of 
Ohio.  There  is  in  them  the  glitter  of  those  brighter  things  whose  colors  never 
fade,  and  the  music  that  lingers  forever  of  the  better  things,  that  are  unsearch 
able  save  by  those  whose  gift  is  to  put  on  the  wings  of  poetry. 


MURAT   HALSTEAD. 


Cincinnati,  Sept.  loth,  1886. 


REMARKS   OF   GEN'L  J.   D.   COX 
AT  THE  OBSEQUIES  OF  MR.  F.  B.  PLIMPTON,  CINCINNATI,  APRIL  25,  1886. 


HAVE  been  requested  to  say  a  few  words  in  regard  to  our  departed 
friend,  and  as  I  reflect  upon  what  I  ought  to  say,  I  am  impressed  more 
than  one  often  can  be  with  the  way  in  which  the  past  and  the  present 
sometimes  link  themselves  together. 

Both  Florus  Plimpton  and  myself  have  been  too  busy  men  in  our 
different  spheres  of  work  to  be  very  often  thrown  together.  For  many 
years  our  interviews,  though  warmly  friendly,  have  necessarily  been  brief, 
and  therefore,  when  I  was  asked  to  say  something  about  him,  I  naturally 
thought  of  that  time  which  now  seems  a  long  way  off,  when  he  and  I 
were  young  men  together. 

We  began  life,  I  in  my  profession,  he  in  his,  in  a  little  town  in  the 
northern  part  of  the  State,  when  we  were  both  just  beyond  our  boy- 
hood,  both  full  of  hopes,  and  both  earnest  in  our  own  plans  for  work ; 
and  yet  it  so  happened  that  we  were  thrown  fur  a  time  quite  closely  together. 
He  was  full  of  that  literary  spirit  which  never  left  him,  but  which,  in  his  early 
manhood,  probably  had  a  stronger  hold  upon  him,  and  made  more  of  his  life  and 
character  than  it  could  afterward. 

Full  of  poetic  dreams,  full  of  strong  purpose,  and  embodying  it  in  worthy 
literary  work,  yet  he  was  already  committed  to  that  laborious  career,  as  editor  of 
a  journal,  to  which  his  working  days  and  nights  had  to  be  devoted.  I  naturally 
looked  back,  as  I  said,  to  that  time,  thinking  of  him  as  I  saw  him  then,  and 
when  yesterday  I  took  his  son  by  the  hand,  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  he  had 
grown  to  manhood  almost  while  we  had  been  thinking,  or  that  it  was  his  father 
as  he  stood  before  me  thirty  years  ago  that  I  so  well  remembered.  It  is  this 
bringing  of  the  past  and  present  together  that  sometimes  comes  upon  us  almost 
with  a  shock.  The  gap  between  has  been  full  of  interest  to  us  both.  The  plans 
we  laid  out  were  very  far  indeed,  perhaps,  from  being  those  we  either  of  us 
followed,  and  yet,  looking  back  on  that  life,  I  think  we  can  not  help  saying  that, 
in  his  case,  it  has  been  full  of  wonderful  fruit  of  its  own ;  full  of  a  character  that 
was  ever  ripening;  full  of  maturing  growth  of  that  power  of  intellect  and  of 
imagination  which  he  showed  as  a  boy. 


He  would  have  been  glad  could  he  have  made  his  life  essentially  and  purely 
a  literary  one,  essentially  and  purely  a  poetic  one.  I  have  no  doubt  that  was 
his  earliest  longing,  but  with  courage  and  with  determination  he  recognized  fairly 
the  fact  that  the  poetic  is  only  a  small  part  of  any  man's  life ;  that  there  are  rare 
chances,  few  and  far  between,  when  a  man  can  wholly  follow  out  the  imaginative 
desires  of  his  heart  and  mind.  There  was  work  to  do,  and  to  that  work  he 
addressed  himself,  whatever  leisure  moments  his  arduous  task  granted  being 
devoted  to  what  was  beautiful  in  nature  and  art.  He  did  not  blink  the  truth 
that  in  this  busy,  every-day  world  the  work  of  the  day  is  really  that  to  which 
every  man  and  woman  must  give  most  of  their  time  and  most  of  their  strength. 

To  that,  therefore,  he  devoted  himself  with  the  zeal  and  power  which  others 
are  more  competent  to  speak  of  than  am  I,  for  of  the  work  of  modern  journal 
ism,  of  those  who  devote  their  time  and  mind  to  the  unending  task  of  editing  a 
daily  newspaper,  we  know  little.  Knowing  what  I  know,  seeing  what  I  have 
seen  in  these  kindly  touches  of  the  elbow  when  marching  through  life,  in  these 
memories  of  the  friendship  of  early  days,  I  can  testify  that  the  man's  power  was 
ripening  and  strengthening  in  life  and  constantly  beautifying  it  as  he  went  on  to 
its  close. 

I  can  not  help  thinking  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  life  that  in  many  respects 
is  a  purer,  a  more  desirable  one,  than  that  which  our  friend  lived. 

He  devoted  himself  to  thinking  out  those  problems  affecting  the  interests  of 
the  whole  world,  which  are  every  day  arising,  and  by  his  pen  laid  them  before 
the  eyes  of  men.  He  did  not  do  it  ostentatiously — the  very  character  of  his 
work  made  it  a  quiet  one.  Not  seeking  the  glory  of  a  public  life — indeed  quite 
aside  from  it,  working  away,  day  after  day,  night  after  night,  putting  his  thought 
into  such  form  that  the  intellect  of  the  people  of  his  time  might  profit  by  it, 
and  now,  during  that  thirty-odd  years  of  that  sort  of  labor,  what  may  be  really 
thought  of  the  accomplishment?  How  much  has  been  done  we  can  imagine 
better  than  we  can  know.  Starting  from  these  early  days,  in  the  'so's,  we  know 
that  great  things  were  being  agitated  in  our  midst.  Hearts  were  stirred  with  the 
suspicion  of  coming  revolution.  One  of  those  great  events  which  mark  an  epoch  and 
which  has  made  our  age  memorable  to  all  ages,  was  coming  to  the  surface.  From 
that  on,  during  all  this  period,  his  mind  and  pen  labored  unremittingly  for  the 
press,  and  he  has  contributed  much  to  make  our  country  what  it  is. 

All  these  things  occur  to  us  naturally,  and  I  am  glad  of  the  opportunity  to 
say,  in  this  brief  way,  how  it  has  impressed  me;  and  judging  of  it,  as  his  early 
friends  might  judge,  I  feel,  when  we  come  to  put  him  away,  that  his  has  been  a 
life  well-spent;  a  life  which,  both  for  its  happiness  and  accomplishment,  has 
been  well  worth  the  living.  Then  when  we  add  to  it  his  excursions  into  that 
field  to  which  he  constantly  turned— the  love  of  art,  the  love  of  poetry,  of  nature, 
and  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in  the  world — we  see  the  beauty  of  the  life  of  our 
friend.  We  who  have  known  him  know  the  purity  of  his  life — his  adherence  to 
what  he  believed  was  right — the  singleness  of  purpose  with  which  he  followed 
what  he  thought  was  true. 


XV1V 


I  believe  those  who  know  him  best  believe  he  has  fairly  worked  out  his 
allotted  days  according  to  the  power  that  was  in  him.  He  has  not  spared  himself, 
and  in  doing  this  he  has,  perhaps,  accomplished  more  than  could  have  been 
done  during  a  longer  life. 

To  those  near  and  dear  to  him,  and  to  all  his  friends,  year  after  year,  his 
memory  will  only  grow  the  riper  and  richer.  There  is  nothing  to  look  back 
upon  with  shame  or  fear  in  the  life  of  our  friend.  As  all  these  events  of  his 
life  get  a  little  further  into  the  past  they  will  glow  with  the  halo  of  the  light 
of  all  he  has  done,  with  the  beautiful  effects  of  distance  tending  to  make  us 
appreciate  them  more  than  when  they  were  close  to  us,  and  making  us  better 
understand  what  the  man  was  in  his  character  and  purpose.  I  think  we  and 
they  have  the  right  to  feel  this.  The  memory  of  his  life  to  all  who  knew  him 
will  be  a  constant  stimulus  to  be  worthy  of  the  friendship  of  such  a  man. 


TRIBUTES  FROM  ASSOCIATE  JOURNALISTS. 


)HE   following,   written   by   a   fellow    worker  with  Mr. 
Plimpton  for  twenty-five  years,  appeared  in  the  Com 
mercial  Gazette,  April  24,  1886. 

There  was  that  in  Mr.  Plimpton  that  was  quite  un- 
,  tamable  for  empty  worldly  uses.  His  sense  of  honor  was 
the  keenest ;  a  mean  act  called  forth  his  quick  resent 
ment.  He  entered  no  scramble  for  advancement ;  intrigue 
he  abhorred.  His  character  was  totally  free  from  dis 
guise.  Deceit  in  others  shocked  him,  and  he  was  slow  to  give  it  that  name.  He 
was  sensitive,  yet  a  spirit  of  revenge  was  totally  foreign  to  him.  He  was  a  man 
of  infinite  quiet  jest,  of  infinite  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  and  of  art,  a  friend 
of  his  kind,  a  cheerful  and  resolute  soldier  of  duty.  His  generosity  to  the  unfor 
tunate  was  noted,  and  he  did  not  turn  away  from  those  whose  misfortunes  were 
self-inflicted.  In  public  affairs  his  feelings  were  as  warm  as  his  labors  were  earnest. 
His  patriotism  was  an  energetic  sentiment.  Those  who  enjoyed  his  friendship 
recognized  in  him  a  companion  of  rare  accomplishments  and  a  fineness  of  qualities 
that  they  will  not  meet  with  again  in  the  same  lovable  combination.  There  is, 
in  our  opinion,  no  man  living  who  can  say  that  he  was  wronged  in  act  or  thought 
by  Mr.  Plimpton.  His  record  is  finished,  and  no  one  can  step  forth  to  point  out  a 
questionable  deed,  or  a  word  of  malice.  He  loved  the  world  and  its  beauties,  its 
creatures  and  its  responsibilities,  and  his  neighbor  as  himself.  He  brightened  his 
wide  circle  while  here ;  and  his  departure  leaves  a  clear  and  steady  ray  for  remem 
brance. 

Mr.  Plimpton  was  a  born  poet.  To  devote  himself  to  poetry  would  doubtless 
have  been  the  ideal  life  for  him.  There  was  about  him  at  times  a  poetic  abstraction 
that  his  associates  understood,  and  often,  after  the  paper  went  to  press,  at  3  or  4 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  would  write  two  or  three  stanzas  on  a  subject  that  had  at 
some  time  of  the  busy  day  flashed  into  his  mind,  and  had  been  put  aside  to  wait  for 
a  moment  of  leisure.  These  poetic  subjects  were  most  varied.  He  did  not  seek  to 
control  them,  nor  reduce  them  to  any  system.  Generally  they  were  left  unfinished  ; 
yet  they  forced  a  hearing  since  he  could  not  resist  them  entirely.  Sometimes  he 
would  repeat  to  an  intimate  friend  a  couplet  that  had  darted  into  his  mind  ready 
made,  and  he  would  complete  the  stanza,  giving  it  more  than  likely  an  amusing  turn. 
Vigorous  as  he  was  in  the  prose  of  journalism,  and  great  as  were  his  resources  as  a 


XX11 


writer  of  masculine  leaders  and  paragraphs  with  the  keenest  edge,  he  yet  impressed 
those  who  knew  him  well  as  one  who  would  never  cease  to  feel  the  fascinations  of 
poetry  and  belles  lettres. 

Mr.  Plimpton  began  to  write  poetry  as  a  boy.  He  contributed  poems  to  various 
newspapers  and  periodicals  —  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  Book, 
Genius  of  the  West,  New  York  Tribune,  Ohio  State  Journal,  and  Cincinnati  Com 
mercial.  His  poetry  is  graceful  and  gentle,  the  reflex  of  happy  moods,  or  of  tender 
seriousness.  It  is  characterized  by  an  intense  love  of  natural  scenery,  especially 
far-reaching  pastoral  or  forest  loveliness.  He  was  master,  too,  of  the  pathos  that  is 
twixt  a  smile  and  a  tear,  as  evidenced  by  such  poems  as  that  in  which  the  poor 
homeless  woman,  in  her  misery,  beseeches  His  Honor  to  make  her  sentence  four 
months  instead  of  two.  His  lines  are  very  musical,  and  owe  their  melody  to  an 
inborn  sense  of  rhythm.  His  poems — of  which  he  was  himself  so  careless — should 
now  be  collected.  They  will  give  him  a  place  of  honor  among  Ohio  singers. 

He  was  not  willing,  however,  to  collect  them  himself,  for  he  was  of  a  retiring 
spirit,  and  he  saw  in  them  youthful  imperfections  of  art,  or  failure,  in  maturer  years, 
to  reach  his  own  ideals  or  full  intent.  The  poems  are  widely  scattered  in  news 
papers  and  magazines,  and  many  of  them  can 'only  be  recovered  by  patient  search. 
He  never  contemplated  their  publication  in  a  volume ;  but  those  who  are  familiar 
with  even  a  few  of  them  know  that  their  author  underrated  their  quality,  and  re 
garded  the  subject  of  their  collection  too  lightly  : 


"Poets  are  all  who  love,  who  feel  great  truths, 
And  tell  them ;  and  the  truth  of  truths  is  love." 


J.  W.  M. 


|N  venturing  a  few  comments  on  Florus  B.  Plimpton's  literary  character, 
I  am  happily  aided  by  the  impressions  of  personal  acquaintance  and 
friendship  lasting  through  a  series  of  years,  and  becoming  somewhat 
close  and  intimate  towards  the  end  of  his  life.  I  may  say  that  I  had 
an  impressive  touch  of  his  literary  judgment  at  our  first  meeting,  which 
was  when  he  happened  to  be  temporarily  in  charge  of  a  great  daily  news 
paper,  and  I  the  latest  addition  to  the  staff  of  local  reporters.  It  was 
>then  that  he  took  pains  to  check  my  youthful  ardor  on  entering  the  field 
of  journalism,  telling  me  that  success  lay  not  so  much  in  enthusiasm 
and  flights  of  fancy  as  in  patience  and  plain  work.  At  a  later  day  he 
was  more  emphatic  in  declaring  that  if  I  hoped  to  get  on  well  with  the 
paper  I  must  abandon  my  poetry  (which  I  confess  was  not  good),  and  stick  to  every 
day  prose.  The  advice,  though  cold  and  hard,  went  home  with  great  force,  for  he 
was  a  poet  of  acknowledged  merit,  and  an  accomplished  literary  critic,  as  well  as  an 
experienced  and  practical  journalist.  However,  I  owe  him  a  great  debt  of  gratitude 
for  kindly  words  of  encouragement  when  I  felt  I  sorely  needed  them,  but  could 
not  solicit  them  anywhere. 

He  was  generously  disposed  towards  young  writers  of  whom  many  came  to 
him  for  advice,  carefully  entering  into  the  details  of  their  plans,  directing  the 
progress  of  their  work,  writing  introductions  for  their  books,  and  assisting  them 
in  many  ways.  As  to  his  own  compositions,  the  mass  of  them  of  course  went  into 
the  anonymous  columns  of  the  newspaper,  to  be  turned  to  the  gaze  of  the  world 
for  a  day,  and  then  to  the  dusty  wall  forever.  While  the  poetic  sentiment  was 
strong  within  him,  and  its  expression  most  happy,  he  almost  to  the  point  of  total 
suppression  subordinated  the  gentle  muse  to  the  rigorous  requirements  of  his 
business  tasks.  Thus  happen  so  many  fragments  and  unfinished  pieces  among 
the  few  complete  poems  he  has  left  to  us.  At  times,  when  in  perfect  mood,  and 
the  idle  moments  dragged,  he  would  dash  off  a  few  lines  of  a  poem  in  his  mind, 
and,  suddenly  interrupted  by  a  summoning  duty,  thrust  the  manuscript,  ink-wet 
and  blotted,  into  his  desk  to  be  forgotten  with  the  vanished  inspiration.  In  after 
days,  when  clearing  out  the  dusty  pigeon-holes,  he  would  come  across  these 
fugitives,  read  them  to  a  friend  who  might  be  near,  joke  upon  them  and  throw 
them  into  the  waste  basket  —  a  few  exceptions  being  stowed  away  again,  to  be 
"finished  up  some  day,"  or,  more  likely,  cast  aside  at  the  next  overhauling.  Dis 
tinguished  for  his  intelligence  and  appreciation  in  high  art  and  literature,  Mr. 
Plimpton  was  still  very  fond  of  indulging  his  taste  for  homely  country  themes, 
and  of  calling  up  memories  of  boyhood  amid  gentle  surroundings.  There  were 


XXIV 

at  least  two  or  three  of  his  ballads,  unfinished  and  long  ago  lost,  I  suppose,  which 
for  sweetness  and  tenderness  were  hardly  excelled  by  Phoebe  Gary's  famous 
"Old  Brown  Homestead"  that 

"Reared  its  walls 
From  the  wayside  dust  aloof, 
Where  the  apple  boughs  could  almost  cast 
Their  fruitage  on  the  roof." 

However  much  we  may  prize  Mr.  Plimpton's  more  elaborate  poems,  carefully 
constructed  and  polished  for  formal  occasions,  and  which  in  my  humble  judgment 
are  not  his  best;  however  much  we  may  enjoy  his  songs  and  narrative  verses; 
however  fondly  we  may  gather  up  the  loose  fragments,  glad  in  our  regret  at 
their  unfinished  state  that  the  fragments  themselves  at  least  remain  to  us,  who 
will  attempt  to  estimate  the  number  and  quality  of  the  poems  of  his  composition 
that  shall  never  see  the  light  of  print — not  even  the  light  of  manuscript  ?  It  was 
his  habit  in  the  evening  to  leave  his  study  in  the  newspaper  office  and  saunter 
about  the  streets  of  the  city  for  exercise  and  fresh  air.  Frequently  in  his  strolls 
he  would  compose  a  complete  poem  of  several  stanzas,  which  he  would  bring 
back  in  his  mind,  recite  perhaps  to  the  first  person  he  met  at  the  office — and 
that  was  the  end  of  it. 

Mr.  Plimpton  wrote  his  last  poem  in  November,  1885,  after  a  long  night's 
work.  Living  in  the  suburbs,  it  was  his  custom  to  remain  in  the  office  until  day 
light,  and  then  take  a  street  car  for  his  home.  I  had  asked  him  to  contribute 
something  for  a  little  magazine  of  which  I  was  the  editor.  One  morning  on  coming 
to  the  office,  I  found  the  poem  as  he  had  left  it  on  my  desk.  He  had  written 
it  in  the  silent  hours  after  the  other  newspaper  people  had  gone,  and  he  was  in 
the  great  building  entirely  alone.  He  entitled  it  "  Bereaved,"  and  it  certainly 
breathes  the  spirit  of  sorrow  and  desolation,  if  not  of  utter  despair.  This  was  at 
a  time  when  Mr.  Plimpton  was  suffering  intensely,  and  rapidly  losing  strength 
under  the  disease  that  in  a  few  months  caused  his  death. 

J.   M.   C. 
Cincinnati,  Oct.  28,  1886. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

•    BY 

PROF.  J.  W.  SHIKMER,  (deceased) 

PROF.  HANS  GUDE,  BERLIN 

PROF.  WM.  RIEFSTAHL,          .        .        .        .        .  MUNICH 

C.  T.  WEBBER,  CINCINNATI 

E.  D.  GRAFTON,  

HENRY  MOSLER, PARIS 

CHAS.  NIEHAUS,  ROME 

C.  A.  FRIES,         .......          CINCINNATI 

L.  C.  WEGLAU,. 

H.  F.  FARNY,  

L.  F.  PLYMPTON,     .        .        . 

A.  R.  VALENTINE, 

Miss  C.  NEWTON,  

Miss  LAURA  FRY, 

Miss  M.  SPENCER, 

MRS.  A.  B.  MERRIAM, 

MRS.  C.  A.  PLIMPTON, 


Reproductions  by  the   Heliotype   Printing  Co.,  Boston^ 
Moss  Engraving   Co.,  New  York. 


The  Oak; 

Souvenirs, 

The  Poet's  Habitation, 

In  Dreams  of  Heaven, 

Lewis  Wetzel, 

Content, 

The  Nobly  Great, 

Prayer  of  Old  Age, 

Evening  Hymn, 

Christus  Sylvae, 

The  Cricket, 

The  Universal  Robber, 

The  Reformer, 

Fort  Du  Quesne 


PAGE. 

i 

7 
10 

13 
M 
20 

21 
23 
24 
25 
29 

31 
32 

35 


xxx  CONTENTS. 

Ode,                                 .  38 

Pittsburg,  .                                                                        4° 

Sonnet,  4i 

Mount  Gilbo,  42 

Hermit  of  Mount  Gilbo,  45 

A  Woman's  Tear,  5i 

A  Poor  Man's  Thanksgiving,  52 

En  Memoire,          .  .                                                                        53 

Our  Country's  Flag,  57 

Love's  Heralds,  .                                                                           58 

Heaven's  Evangels,  59 

Ossian  to  His  Harp,  6° 

Tell  Me  True,     .           .  62 

The  Hero  of  the  Arctic,  64 

Why  Mourn,  O  Friend,  .                                                                66 

Star  of  the  Evening,  67 

Make  it  Four,  Yer  Honor,  69 

The  Brown  Chick-a-dee,  72 

The  Two  Mariners,       .  73 

The  Emigrant's  Invitation,  .                                                            74 

From  Their  Serene  Abodes,  75 

The  Morning  Prayer,  .                                                                •            77 

Philo  is  Dead,                ...  79 

Her  Record,  .                                                         81 

Sleigh-Ride  Song,  82 

Waiting,                  .  .                                                                        83 

In  Remembrance,          .  .                                                   87 

Spiritus  Sylvae,  .                                                                           89 

Bereaved,        .               .  96 

There  Comes  a  Time,  .               .                                                           97 

The  Rural  Editor,        .  99 

In  Memory,            .  i°8 

A  New  Year's  Rhyme,  "° 

The  Farmer,          .  "5 

By  the  Sea-Side,  .                                                                 "6 

Sonnet,  .                                                                      I!8 


CONTENTS. 


The  Fountain  in   the  Wilderness, 

The  Unreturning, 

As  I  Love, 

Morning  on  Maryland  Heights, 

Summer  Days, 

A  Suburban  Home, 

The  Avowal, 

Protean  Dust, 

The  Early  Dead, 

A  Retrospect, 

Home, 

Ellula, 

The  Flower  Angels, 

Waiting  to  Die, 

The  Loved  Ones  Afar, 

October, 

The  Unsealed  Future, 

Song  of  Parting, 

Pio  Nono, 

For  His  Mercy  Endureth  Forever, 


125 
126 
127 


133 
135 
'36 
137 
139 
140 

143 
M5 
146 
149 
150 
151 
152 
153 
155 


POEMS 


THE   OAK. 


RANDI/Y  apart  the  giant  monarch  stands, 
All  reverend  with  lichens,  looking  down 
A  green  declivity  on  pastoral  lands, 
And  all  the  waysides  choke  with  dust  and  heat, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  his  regal  crown, 
Fair  maids  and  lusty  jTouth  at  eve  retreat. 
To  dance  the  hours  away  with  lightly-twinkling  feet. 

When,  to  the  singing  of  the  early  birds, 
Spring  bursts  in  blossoms  from  the  southern  sk\-. 
And  scornful  of  the  stall,  the  lowing  herds 
In  pastures  green  delight  to  graze  and  lie  ; 
When  milk-white  doves  to  mossy  gables  fly — 
Heaven  filled  with  song,  earth  with  sweet  utterings, 
And  winds  through  odorous  vales  blow  pleasantly, 
Its  thousand  boughs  seem  bursting  into  wings, 
Silken  and  smooth  and  green  and  full  of  flutterings. 


THE   OAK. 

Among  thick  drapery  of  green  its  nest 

The  dormouse  builds,  and  there  the  robins  sing, 

Till  Evening  sets  her  roses  in  the  west. 

On  topmost  boughs  the  chattering  squirrels  swing, 

And  round  its  twigs  the  spiders  spin  and  cling 

Their  gauzy  nets  ;  there  too  the  beetles  creep 

To  hide  in  shaggy  cells,  where  wood-ticks  ring 

Their  mid-watch  bells  while  weary  mortals  sleep — 

What  time,  'tis  said,  the  elves  their  mystic  revels  keep. 

Here,  ancients  say,  his  royal  brothers  stood  ; 

But  none  remains — the  giant  stands  alone, 

The  gracious  lord  of  the  primeval  wood, 

The  hoary  monarch  of  an  heirless  throne. 

Here,  when  the  summer's  glory  gilds  its  own, 

And  da}-  dims  dying  in  the  purple  air, 

The  angels  come  and  wake  each  heavenly  tone 

That  floats  around  and  fondly  lingers  there — 

A  wordless   song  of  praise  from  murmuring  lips  of  prayer. 

Or  when  capricious  autumn  dyes  with  hues 
Crimson  and  brown  and  gold,  this  forest  Lear, 
And  spangles  of  the  hoar-frost  and  the  dews 
Like  countless  brilliants  flash  afar  and  near 
The  gorgeous  state  he  keeps ;  and  cold  and  clear, 
The  subtle  arrows  of  quick-quivering  light 
With  luster  tip  the  leaves  now  crisp  and  sere, 
Then  seems  the  oak  th'  enchantment  of  the  night, 
A  splendor  of  weird  spells,  a  cheat  upon  the  sight ! 

But  most  'tis  kingly  when  the  laboring  woods 
With  gust}-  winds  and  darkening  tempests  roar, 
And  crash  the  thunders  of  the  seething  floods 
That  snow  their  white  foam  on  the  wrecking  shore ; 
When  Winter  rages  on  the  lonely  moor, 


THE   OAK. 

Yokes  the  swift  whirlwind  to  his  icy  car, 

And  in  Titanic  folds  the  heavens  o'er, 

Gathers  his  cloudy  banners  from  afar, 

And  marshals  with  shrill  blasts  the  elements  to  war. 

O  then  the  sound  of  the  entangled  wind, 
Among  its  boughs,  is  like  the  stormy  swell 
Of  organ-pipes  in  fretted  walls  confined, 
To  roll  through  arches  vast  and  die  in  vault  and  cell. 
How  like  the  grand  old  monarch,  when  the  fell 
And  pitiless  storm  seemed  with  the  world  to  mock 
His  uncrown' d  age — and  yet  how  strong  and  well 
It  braved  the  storm  and  bore  the  tempest's  shock, 
Firm  in  its  native  soil  as  alpine  rock  to  rock. 

And  well  I  love  that  oak !     Not  those  that  shade 

Thy  classic  slopes,  Mount  Ida ;  or  shake  down 

Their  brown-hued  fruit,  from  gnarled  boles  decayed, 

Beside  the  winding  Simois ;  or  crown 

The  horrid  steeps  where  ivied  castles  frown, 

And  dark-eyed  bandits  bid  th'  unwary  stand ; 

Are  regal  in  their  centuries  of  renown 

As  thou,  hale  oak,  whose  glories  thus  command 

My  humble  song,  O  pride  of  all  our  mountain  land ! 

Here  rests  the  poor  wayfarer,  soiled  and  \vorn, 

And  folds  his  hands  in  slumbers  soft  and  deep ; 

Here  comes  the  widowed  soul  her  loss  to  mourn, 

Counts  o'er  her  trysts,  and  counts  them  but  to  weep ; 

Here  happy  lovers  blissful  unions  keep, 

And  bending  age  its  vanished  youth  deplores, 

Or  sighs  "for  heaven's  sweet  rest,  life's  gentlest  sleep, 

That  gives  youth  back  to  age,  the  lost  restores, 

And  brings  the  welcoming  hands  that  waft  to  happier  shores. 


THE   OAK. 

The  village  maid,  who  sings  among  the  fields, 

In  wrinkled  sorrow  sighs  her  soul  away ; 

The  dimpled  babe  to  reverend  honors  yields, 

And  patriarch  Faith  sees  calmly  close  the  day. 

Life  laughs  —  loves  —  dies;  afar  the  years  convey 

On  cloudy  wings  the  pleasures  we  pursue, 

And  still  thou  piercest  the  repelling  clay, 

And  lift'st  thy  regal  head  to  heaven's  blue, 

Green  with  a  thousand  years  of  sunshine,  rain  and  dew. 

In  all  thy  varied  glory  thou  hast  been 

The  idol  of  my  boyhood,  and  the  pride 

Of  more  exacting  manhood ;  now,  as  then, 

I  love  to  lean  thy  moss-green  trunk  beside, 

And  mingle,  with  the  voices  of  the  tide 

And  thy  strange  whisperings,  my  unstudied  song, 

And  here  recall  the  dear  delights  who  died 

Since  thy  great  arms  grew  obstinately  strong  — 

But  whose  quick  feet  no  more  beneath  thy  shade  shall  throng. 


SOUVENIRS. 

I. — L' ENVOY. 


|S  sweetly  tranced  the  ravished  Florentine 
Tarried  'mid  pallid  gloom,  again  to  hear 
Cassella  warble  tuneful  to  his  ear, 
Thus  I,  a  Bacchant,  rosy  with  love's  wine, 
Drink  thy  words,  sweet,  forgetful  with  what  haste 
Time's  winged  heel  beats  rearward  all  the  hours. 
To  me  alike  all  seasons,  deeds  and  powers, 
When  by  the  atmosphere  of  love  embraced, 
I  sit  sun-crowned,  and  as  a  god  elate, 
In  thy  dear  presence.     Let  the  great  world  go. 
In  lowliest  meads  the  pansies  love  to  grow, 
And  sweet  Content  was  born  to  low  estate. 
Here  is  our  blessed  Egeria— let  us  stay : 
Where  love  has  fixed  the  heart,  no  charm  can  lure  away. 


SOUVENIRS. 


II. — TELL  HER. 

RIVER  Beautiful !  the  breezy  hills 
That  slope  their  green  declivities  to  thee, 
In  purple  reaches  hide  my  life  from  me. 
Go  then,  beyond  the  thunder  of  the  mills, 
And  wheels  that  churn  thy  waters  into  foam, 
And  murmuring  softly  to  the  darling's  ear, 
And  murmuring  sweetly  when  my  love  shall  hear, 
Tell  how  I  miss  her  presence  in  our  home. 
Say  that  it  is  as  lonely  as  my  heart ; 
The  rooms  deserted ;  all  her  pet  birds  mute ; 
The  sweet  geraniums  odorless  ;  the  flute 
Its  stops  untouched,  while  wondrous  gems  of  art 
Lie  lusterless  as  diamonds  in  a  mine, 
To  kindle  in  her  smile  and  in  her  radiance  shine. 


SOUVENIRS. 


III. — RETURN. 

ETURN — return  !  nor  longer  stay  thy  feet, 
Where  rugged  hills  shut  in  the  peaceful  dale, 
And  chattering  runnels  riot  through  the  vale, 
And  lose  themselves  in  meadows  violet  sweet. 
Or  does  the  oriole  charm  thee  ;  or  the  lark 

Lure  thee  to  green  fields,  where  the  gurgling  brook 
Leaps  up  to  kiss  thy  feet,  the  while  we  look 
For  thee  with  tearful  eyes  from  morn  till  dark? 
O  winds,  that  blow  from  out  th'  inconstant  west, 
O  birds,  that  eastward  wing  your  heavenly  way, 
Tell  her  of  our  impatience — her  delay, 
And  woo  the  wanderer  to  her  humble  nest ; 
Come,  as  the  dove  that  folds  her  wings  in  rest, 
When  holy  evening  sets  her  watch-star  in  the  west. 


THK  POET'S   HABITATION. 


HE  Poet's  habitation  is  the  World  ; 
And  his  most  sacred  thoughts  become  its  own. 
He  is  the  interpreter  of  the  natural  earth, 
And  gives  inanimate  substances  a  voice 
And  subtlety  of  language,  which  do  make 

Them  sybils  to  the  restless  heart  of  man — 

Confessors  to  its  secret  questionings ; 

And  he  delights  in  solitude  to  dwell, 

'Mid  grey-cloaked  crags,  around  whose  loveless  fronts, 

Like  Firmness  baring  to  the  sport  of  Fate, 

Frosty  Euroclydon  and  Boreas  gruff 

Hoarsely  and  harshly  howl  their  discontent. 

Mountains  that,  grandly  rising,  prop  the  sky, 

Inaccessible  ravines  and  forests  dark, 

The  solemn  sounding  sea  and  lonely  shore, 

Desert  and  moor,  and  melancholy  haunt, 

The  grave,  the  silent,  vast,  profound,  sublime, 

Are  to  his  spirit,  in  their  loneliness, 

Th'  unerring  teachings  of  a  hidden  POWER. 

He  revels  in  the  storm ;  and  in  the  roar 

Of  sulphurous  thunder,  and  the  fearful  pulse 

Of  troubled  waters  beating  on  the  shore. 

He  hears  the  anthem  of  a  Universe 

To  the  INVISIBLE. 

In  his  milder  moods 

He  seeks  the  quiet  of  the  templed  grove, 
Or  the  untrammeled  glen,  that  human  art 
Hath  not  despoiled  of  natural  loveliness. 


THE   POET  S   HABITATION. 

Th'  enameled  banks  that  hem  the  gurgling  brook — 

Whose  crystal  waters  with  the  scent  of  mint, 

And  roses  wild  (whose  petal ed  blushes  fall, 

And  glide,  like  pleasures  in  our  childhood, 

So  gently  down  the  stream)  are  redolent — 

Those  banks,  where  tender  flocks  their  gambols  take, 

Sweet  with  the  breath  of  violets  and  anemones, 

And  of  the  wild-pea,  sweetest  child  of  spring  ; 

The  willow  copse  that  bends  its  tassel' d  boughs 

To  the  least  breathing  of  the  gentle  South ; 

And  the  old  oaks  that  spread  their  generous  limbs 

As  cool  retreats  'gainst  June's  meridian  sun,— 

These,  with  the  outlines  of  such  pastoral  scene, 

Swelling  and  blending  with  the  softest  grace, 

Like  woman's  beauty,  to  his  dreamy  eye 

Are  a  perpetual  delight  and  joy. 

To  him  no  music  sweeter  than  the  songs  of  birds, 

Or  childhood's  artless  utterance 

Of  joys  wild  gushing  through  its  bounding  heart  ; 

Or  the  low  carol  of  a  love-born  song, 

By  maiden  lips,  beneath  an  evening  sky, 

Sung  with  fresh  orals  to  the  ear  of  Love  ; 

Or  plaints  of  lucid  fountains,  or  the  chimes 

Of  distant  church-bells  dying  on  the  air, 

That  leave,  like  kind  farewell  words,  within  the  heart 

A  most  delicious  calm  of  pensive  joy. 

And  when  retiring  fades  the  jocund  day — 
When  sable-hooded  twilight,  like  old  age 
That  wraps  itself  in  shadows,  cometh  on. 
And  shuts  from  vision  all  external  things 
(As  sleep  the  senses  from  the  outer  world) — 
When,  even  as  diamonds  set  in  sapphire,  blaze 
In  the  cerulean  all  the  hosts  of  heaven — 


THK    POET'S   HABITATION. 

Forever  young-eyed  watchers  o'er  old  earth — 

His  silver-slippered  Fancy  calls  to  life 

Th'  innumerable  fairies  of  the  sylvan  shade, 

Peoples  the  founts  and  streams  with  dew-eyed  nymphs, 

And  to  their  revels  by  the  moon-light  calls 

Pale  Fay  and  timid  Fawn  and  laughing  Puck, 

And  give  to  silence  and  to  solitude 

A  thousand  denizens  of  purity. 


IN   DREAMS   OF  HEAVEN. 


N  dreams  of  Heaven  I  see  thy  face, 
Divinely  sweet,  divinely  fair ; 

No  stain  of  earth  hath  left  its  trace 
To  mar  the  fadeless  beauties  there, 

But  calm  and  pure  its  high  repose, 

And  fresher  than  the  morning  rose. 


I  wake,  and  lo  !  the  vision  fled, 

Leaves  doubt  and  dark'ning  thought  behind ; 
Shall  I,  when  numbered  with  the  dead, 

Thy  radiant  beauty  seek  and  find, 
And  walk  beside  thee,  hand  in  hand, 
The  fair  fields  of  the  better  land  ? 


Yet  gentle  spirit,  oft  thine  eyes 

Must  fill  with  tears  as  they  survey 

A  scene  where  every  pleasure  dies, 

Where  loves  grow  cold,  and  hopes  decay, 

And  life,  however  bright  and  blest, 

Ends  in  the  one  desire  for  rest. 


LEWIS   WETZRL* 


Stout-hearted  Lewis  Wetzel 
.Rides  down  the  river  shore, 

The  wilderness  behind  him. 
And  the  wilderness  before. 


He  rides  in  the  cool  of  morning, 

Humming  a  dear  old  tune, 
Into  the  heart  of  the  greenwood, 

Into  the  heart  of  June. 

He  needs  no  guide  in  the  forest, 

More  than  the  hunter  bees ; 
His  guides  are  the  cool  green  mosses 

To  the  northward  of  the  trees. 

*  Lewis  Wetzcl  was  a  "  mighty  hunter  '  la  the  pioneer  days  of  Western  Virginia,  of  which  he  was  a  native.  Many  traditionary 
cdotei  of  hit  extraordinary  skill  with  the  rifle  are  yet  preserved,  tome  of  which  have  been  published.  An  imperfect  sketch  of  bis 
is  given  ID  Dr.  Doddridge'i  "  Notes  on  the  Settlement  and  Indian  Wars  in  the  Western  parts  of  Virginia  and  Pennsylvania." 


LEWIS   WETZEL.  15 


Nor  fears  he  the  foe  whose  footstep 
Is  light  as  the  summer  air — 

The  tomahawk  hangs  in  his  shirt-belt, 
And  the  scalpknife  glitters  there! 

The  stealthy  Wyandots  tremble, 
And  speak  his  name  with  fear, 

For  his  aim  is  sharp  and  deadly, 
And  his  rifle's  ring  is  clear. 

So,  pleasantly  rides  he  onward, 

Pausing  to  hear  the  stroke 
Of  the  settler's  axe  in  the  forest, 

Or  the  crash  of  a  falling  oak; 

Pausing  at  times  to  gather 

The  wild  fruit  overhead; 
(For  in  this  rarest  of  June  days 

The  service-berries  are  red); 

And  as  he  grasps  the  full  boughs, 
To  bend  them  down  amain, 

The  dew  and  the  blushing  berries 
Fall  like  an  April  rain. 

The  partridge  drums  on  the  dry  oak, 

The  croaking  corby  caws, 
The  blackbird  sings  in  the  spice-bush, 

And  the  robin  in  the  haws  ; 

And,  as  they  chatter  and  twitter, 
The  wild  birds  seem  to  say, 

"Do  not  harm  us,  good  Lewis, 
And  you  shall  have  luck  to-day." 


LEWIS   WET/EL. 


So,  pleasantly  rides  he  onward, 
Till  the  shadows  mark  the  noon, 

Into  the  leafy  greenwood, 
Into  the  heart  of  June. 

n. 

Now  speed  thee  on,  good  Lewis, 
For  the  sultry  sun  goes  down, 

The  hill-side  shadows  lengthen, 
And  the  eastern  sky  is  brown. 

Now  speed  thee  where  the  river 
Creeps  slow  in  the  coverts  cool, 

And  the  lilies  nod  their  white  bells 
By  the  margin  of  the  pool. 

He  crosses  the  silver  Kaska 
With  its  chestnut-covered  hills, 

And  the  fetlocks  of  his  roan  steed 
Are  wet  in  a  hundred  rills. 

"And  there,"  he  cries  in  transport, 
"The  alders  greenest  grow, 

Where  the  wild  stag  comes  for  water, 
And  her  young  fawn  leads  the  doe." 

Grasping  his  trust}'  rifle, 
He  whistles  his  dog  behind, 

Then  stretches  his  finger  upward 
To  know  how  sets  the  wind.f 


u  a  custom  among  pioneer  huuters  (»ays  Doddridge),  when  uu  huntiug  expeditions,  and  in  the  vicinity  or  favorite  hunt- 
Is,  to  thrust  the  forefinger  into  the  mouth,  and  when  heated,  to  bold  it  out  into  the  air.  By  this  uieans  they  readilr 
e  course  of  the  wind. 


*    It  was 

lag  ground*., 

detected  the  course  of  th 


LEWIS   WETZEL. 

O  !  steady  grows  the  strong  arm, 
And  the  hunter's  dark  eye  keen, 

As  he  sees  the  branching  antlers 
Through  the  alder  thickets  green. 

A  sharp,  clear  ring  through  the  greenwood, 
And  with  mighty  leap  and  bound, 

The  pride  of  the  western  forest 
Lies  bleeding  on  the  ground. 

Then  out  from  the  leafy  shadow 

A  stalwart  hunter  springs, 
And  his  unsheathed  scalpknife  glittering 

Against  his  rifle  rings. 

' '  And  who  are  you, ' '  quoth  Lewis, 
"That  com'st  'twixt  me  and  mine?" 

And  his  cheek  is  flushed  with  anger, 
As  a  bacchant's  flushed  with  wine. 

"What  boots  that  to  thy  purpose?" 

The  stranger  hot  replies; 
"My  rifle  marked  it  living, 

And  mine  when  dead  the  prize." 
/ 

Then  with  sinewy  arms  they  grapple, 

Like  giants  fierce  in  brawls, 
Till  stretched  along  the  greensward 

The  humbled  hunter  falls. 

Upspringing  like  a  panther, 

He  cries  in  wrath  and  pride, 
"Though  your  arms  may  be  the  stronger, 

Our  rifles  shall  decide." 


i8 


LEWIS   WETZEL. 


"Stay,  stranger,"  quoth  good  Lewis, 
"The  chances  are  not  even; 

Who  challenges  my  rifle 

Should  be  at  peace  with  heaven. 

"Now  take  this  rod  of  alder, 

Set  it  by  yonder  tree, 
A  hundred  yards  beyond  me. 

And  wait  vou  there  and  see. 


' '  For  he  who  dares  such  peril 
But  lightly  holds  his  breath; 

May  his  unshrived  soul  be  ready 
To  welcome  sudden  death  ! ' ' 


So  the  stranger  takes  the  alder, 
And  wondering  stands  to  view, 

While  Wetzel's  aim  grows  steady, 
And  he  cuts  the  rod  in  two. 


LEWIS  WE'IZEL. 

' '  By  Heavens  ! ' '  the  stranger  shouted, 

"One  only,   far  or  nigh, 
Hath  arms  like  the  lithe  young  ash-tree, 

Or  half  so  keen  an  eye ; 

And  that  is  Lewis  Wetzel : ' ' 
Quoth  Lewis,   "Here  he  stands;" 

So  they  speak  in  gentler  manner, 
And  clasp  their  friendly  hands. 

Then  talk  the  mighty  hunters 
Till  the  summer  dew  descends, 

And  they  who  met  as  foemen 
Ride  out  of  the  greenwood  friends ; — 

Ride  out  of  the  leafy  greenwood 

As  rises    the  yellow  moon, 
And  the  purple  hills  lie  pleasantly 

In  the  softened  air  of  June. 


CONTENT. 


this  decaying  leaf, 
And  that  bright  scarlet  berry, 
I  read  of  times  for  grief 
And  seasons  to  be  mem-. 

Go,  then,  thy  cheerful  ways, 
To  sup  with  joy  or  sorrow, 

Hope  with  fair  Youth  to-day, 
And  dream  with  Age  to-morrow. 

For  God  be  thanked,  who  fills 

The  world  with  light  and  shadow, 
Puts  strength  across  the  hills 
And  beauty  in  the  meadow. 

He  knows  our  van-ing  ways, 

Their  bitterness  and  sweetness, 
And  gives  to  wholesome  days 

Their  measure  of  completeness. 

Thus  singing  will  I  go, 

Nor  count  my  gains  or  losses, 
And  bear,  as  best  I  know, 

The  burden  of  my  crosses. 

And  this  my  only  creed 

In  hours  of  doubt  and  blindness, 
Who  sows  for  human  need 

Shall  reap  in  human  kindness. 


THE   NOBLY   GREAT. 

OXE  but  the  good  are  nobly  great ! 

To  him  will  justice  yield  the  prize 
Who  seeks  to  better  man's  estate, 

And  render  earth  a  paradise. 
What  though  the  brow  be  stellate  with  the  gems 


Of  royal  bounty,  or  the  civic  wreath 
Weave  its  green  honors  'mid  Xarcissian  curls, 

If  the  high  soul  beneath 
Purple  the  luster  of  those  diadems 
With  thoughts  of  blood,   that  over  groaning  worlds 
WTould  stride  to  power,  nor  fear  the  bold  essay, 
Though  human  hearts  should  pave  the  slipper}-  way  ! 
When  Death  shall  smite  the  scepter  of  such  power, 

And  the  gray  sexton  hide  his  human  clay ; 
When,  like  the  vision  of  an  idle  hour, 

Shall  pass  the  glory  of  his  strength  away, 
Like  a  dark  shadow,  through  the  coming  years 

Shall  the  remembrance  of  his  deeds  extend, 
And  the}'  who  praised,  when  vengeance  roused  their  fears, 

Refuse  to  own  that  he  was  once  their  friend. 
Beside  his  grave  shall  watch  hand-hidden  shame, 

And  Infamy  around  it  stalk  in  gloom  ; 
Just  curses  fall,  like  blight,  upon  his  name, 

And  Hate  disturb  the  ashes  of  his  tomb. 


THE    NOBLY    GREAT. 

He  who  would  stand  among 
The  great  celestials  canonized  by  Love — 

Truth's  hero-gods  and  bards  of  holy  song — 

And  shine,  a  glory,  'mid  that  mighty  throng, 
Must  noble  deeds  by  noble  aims  approve. 
It  matters  not  how  lowly  be  his  birth, 

How  poor  his  garb,  or  humble  be  his  aim ; 
Love,  Truth  and  Justice  stamp  the  man  of  worth, 

And  yield  the  homage  of  enduring  fame. 

The  marble  crumbles  ;  monuments  decay, 
And  brazen  statues  topple  to  their  fall ; 

Time  eats  the  hardest  adamant  away, 
And  cold  Oblivion  mars  the  pride  of  all. 

But  he  who  graces  every  act  with  love, 
Or  stamps  a  thought  with  th'  impress  of  truth, 
Twines  laureled  honors  of  perpetual  youth 
Around  his  brow,  and  life  in  duty  spent, 
Builds  in  the  hearts  of  men  a  monument 

Which  Hate  or  Time  will  vainly  strive  to  move. 


PRAYER    OF   OLD   AGE. 

jjH  Time !  deal  gently  with  us — let  us  go 

As  peaceful  to  our  rest  as  summer's  bird, 
When  lulled    by  evening  winds  and  tinkling  flow 
Of  rock-born  fountains.     In  our  hearts  are  stirred 
Dear  memories  of  the  days  of  long  ago, 

Affection's  look  and  love's  endearing  word. 
O  kindly  lead  earth's  pilgrims  by  the  hand 
To  the  calm  portals  of  the  Silent  Land. 


EVENING    HYMN. 

ER  the  craggy  mountains  pealing, 
Listen  to  the  vesper  bell, 

Softly  o'er  the  waters  stealing, 

Heavenly  peace  its  tones  foretell. 

Father,  up  in  heaven  above  us, 


Deign  to  pardon,  bless  and  love  us  ; 
Guard  us  ever, 
Keep  us  ever 
From  all  ill  while  here  we  dwell. 

As  the  sun  shines  on  the  ocean, 

Ere  it  leaves  our  happy  skies, 
Smile  upon  our  heart's  devotion — 

Let  our  praise  to  Thee  arise. 
For  the  sins  to  us  forgiven, 
For  the  peace  we  have  from  heaven, 
Holy  Father, 
Blessed  Father, 
Let  our  praise  to  Thee  arise. 

Now  the  evening  star  revealing, 

Shines  upon  retiring  day, 
And  the  purple  tints  are  stealing 

From  the  mountain  tops  away. 
Be  Thy  love  our  star  of  guidance, 
When  age  dims  life's  cheerful  radiance, 
Keep  us  near  Thee, 
Ever  near  Thee — 
Never  let  us  go  astray. 


CHRISTUS   SYLV.E. 


HE  lizard  and  the  water  snake, 
All  tilings  that  haunt  in  tarn  and  brake, 
Are   bred  where,  fretting  through  its  flags, 
The  sluggish  Pymatuning  lags  ; 
The  winds  grow  heavy  as  with  death, 
(So  do  they  feel  the  poisonous  breath 
Of  snaky  vines,  green  spume  of  sedge 
And  fern  that  fringe  the  river's  edge), 
Swoon  where  the  waters  darkly  pass 
Stained  with  the  stain  of  bruised  grass, 
Roots  of  dead  things,  and  leaves  the  years 
Have  scorched  with  fires  and  steeped  in  tears. 

Broadxflats  there  are  to  left  and  right : 
A  wilderness  whose  n^stic  shades 
Nor  light  is  seen  nor  moon  invades, 
Where  fear  the  startled  foot  makes  light 
As  steps  among  damp  graves  at  night. 
From  tangled  undergrowth  uprise 
Thick-fruited  beeches,  hickories, 
Elms  pendulous  and  walnuts  hoar, 
The  ghostly-armored  sycamore. 
And  rugged  oaks  from  whose  green  cowls 
Hoot  the  long  night  the  hooded  owls. 


CHR1STUS  SVLV^E. 


II. 

Drawn  strangely  to  this  solitude 
Came  one  whom  no  man  understood. 
Painter  and  sculptor,  he  had  wrought 
In  outward  form  his  inward  thought, 
Whereof  the  meaning  dimly  guessed 
The  rude  who  stared  and  round  him  pressed. 
The}-  knew  what  flocks  were  best  afield, 
What  lands  could  fattest  harvests  yield ; 
Seasons  they  knew  and  times,  but  not 
The  painter's  dream,  the  sculptor's  thought, 
And  whispered,  when  they  passed  him  by, 
1 '  Hist !  he  hath  madness  in  his  eye. ' ' 

Careless  of  good  report  or  ill, 

He  wrought  with  hand  of  patient  skill 

In  line  and  shade  and  form  to  tell 

A  tale  of  tales  most  wonderful — 

How,  touched  with  sorrow  for  our  state, 

Heaven  opened  wide  its  pearly  gate 

And  One,  to  wound  our  sinful  pride, 

Descended,  prayed  for  us  and  died. 

One  face  upon  his  canvas  shone, 

One  face  he  carved  in  wood  and  stone, 

Wherein  great  pity  was  and  love 

And  suffering,  the  heart  to  move  ; 

Yet  so  divine  its  gracious  air 

That  women  came  and  worshipped  there, 

And  men,  who  thought  to  scoff  and  jeer. 

Turned  to  wipe  off  th'  unbidden  tear. 

But  he  the  artist,  was  as  one 
Who  in  a  language  not  his  own, 
Strives  to  make  clear  the  laboring  sense ; 


CHRISTUS   SYLV^E.  ^^ 

Or  one  who  hears  in  holy  hours 
Voices  that  seem  from  native  land — 
The  angels  singing  'mid  the  flowers — 
Hears  them  but  can  not  understand ; 
And  though  unskilled  on  instruments 
Yet  seeks  to  utter  through  the  keys 
The  burden  of  their  melodies  ; 
So  trying,  oft,  as  oft  in  vain, 
To  shape  the  image  of  his  brain, 
With  troubled  countenance  he  cried 
"Unsatisfied,  unsatisfied  ! " 
And  in  great  grief  none  understood, 
Withdrew  him  to  the  solitude. 

in. 

' '  Lord  Christ  !  "  he  prayed,  hand  smiting  hand, 

In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  land, 

"As  thou  didst  show  thyself  to  her 

Who  waited  at  the  sepulchre, 

Once  more  reveal  thyself  to  sight, 

And  out  of  darkness  bring  the  light. 

Make  clear  my  inward  sense  of  Thee — 

Love,  softening,  heavenly  majesty, 

Grace,  shining  through  a  cloud  of  pain, 

Patience  to  bear  and  not  complain, 

Forgiveness,  conquering  sense  of  wrong, 

And  pity  for  a  scoffing  throng. 

So  shall  these  hands  obedient  trace 

The  features  of  no  mortal  face, 

And  men  shall  say,   "Behold  how  fair — 

The  presence  of  a  God  is  there  ! ' ' 

•*. . 

And  still  he  prayed  :  ' '  Lord  !  Thou  art  here 

Embracing  as  the  atmosphere. 

Thy  love  the  wood-birds'  notes  confess, 


28  CHRISTUS 


The  simple  flower  thy  tenderness  ; 
Thou  walkest  in  the  wilderness. 
So  will  I  carve  my  thought  of  Thee 
And  fashion  from  the  living  tree  ; 
In  Thine  own  temple  shall  it  stand, 
O'erlooking  all  the  lovely  land, 
And  men  shall  say,  approaching  near, 
Behold,  our  Father  dwelleth  here. 

IV. 

So  said,  from  out  fair  ranks  of  trees 
He  chose  —  for  sweetness  stung  by  bees  — 
One  whose  green  tops  the  morning  sun 
Was  first  of  trees  to  look  upon. 
The  fragrant  boughs  he  lopped  :  it  stood 
Bare  as  when  winters  scourge  the  wood, 
Or  lightnings  rive,  or  tongues  of  fire 
Outrun  the  winds  in  keen  desire. 
Then  wrought  in  saintly  solitude 
This  man  whom  no  man  understood, 
And  through  the  silence  of  the  air 
At  evening  rose  the  solemn  pra3-er, 
"In  thine  own  temple.  Lord  appear!" 

When  frosts  make  silvery  even-  sound, 
And  scarlet  trumpets  fire  the  ground, 
Two  hunters,  wandering  through  the  wood, 
Saw  with  awed  eyes  and  understood. 
Prone  at  the  canned  trees  gnarled  face, 
One  dead  they  saw.  and  shivering  there, 
Clear  in  the  crystal  of  the  air, 
A  face  that  seemed  no  mortal  face  — 
The  presence  of  a  God  was  there  ! 


AVIIKX  shrill:  the  .ixrvywi nds  of  winter  sing, 
|  The  harsh  hail  ^tfflhg  madly  at  the  door, 

And  thought  gcfjs  .Mvfc&ring  for  the  houseless  poor 
\Vlio  feel/the  bilt^r  blhsl'.and  biting  sting— 
[f  closer  to  my  .^residx:  then   I   cling, 

Ami  h£nr  from  -put  ;th&  hollow  of  the  hearth 

Tha  comfortable  dr|:lce\  chirp  its  mirth, 
vStraiglft\va\-  .m}-  vision   fills  with  blossoming 

Of  summer:, sweets,   and  fragrant  is  the  earth, 
Meadows  and,  lawns 'grovr  green  ;  the  wandering  breeze 
A  tuneful  troubadour  .among  the  trees, 
S'  Sings  softly,   wooing  beauty  into  birth. 
Birds  carol,  children  shout,   and  earth  and  sky 

•  •   s* '  '  :    '  "     "        •  v 

Blend  like  the  notes  of  perfect  harmony. 


THE   UNIVERSAL    ROBBER. 


IME,  thy  cunning  thefts  I  trace, 
In  the  mirror  of  my  face. 
In  what  hour  of  sleep  did'st  thou 
Pluck  the  brown  hair  from  mv  pow, 
And,  with  fingers  deft  and  sty, 


Steal  bright  laughter  from  mine  eye : 

Charm  away  the  careless  quip 

From  the  sumach-blooded  lip, 

And,  grown  bold,  from  soft  hands  press, 

Radiant  warmth  and  nimbleness, 

And  so  changing  the  fair  show 

That  myself  I  scarcely  know  ? 


THE    REFORMER. 

HE  streams  that  feed  tlfe  thirsty  land, 

Give  largess  freely  as  they  flow, 
From  mountain  rivulets  expand 

And,  strong-armed,  sweep  the  vales  below 


And  eddying  on,  through  bay  and  bight, 
Through  lonely  wild  and  lovely  lea, 

By  scarped  cliff  and  stormy  height, 
In  mighty  rivers  reach  the  sea. 

So  shall  he  grow  who  gives  to  life 
High  purposes  and  lofty  deeds, 

Who  sees  the  calm  above  the  strife 
Of  blinded  self  and  narrow  creeds. 

Oh,  large  of  heart !  oh,  nobly  great ! 

He  scorns  the  thrall  of  sect  and  clan, 
Shakes  off  the  fetters  forged  in  hate, 

And  claims  a  brotherhood  with  man. 

Dwarfed  Ignorance  fills  the  world  with  wail, 
Opinion  sneers  at  his  advance ; 

And  Error,  rusted  in  his  mail, 

Strides  forth  to  meet  him,  lance  to  lance. 

Mean,  pigmy  souls  that  cringe  to  form 
And  fatten  on  the  dregs  of  time, 

Start  from  the  dust  in  their  alarm, 

And  prate  of  rashness,  treason,   crime. 


THE    REFORMER.  33 


Law's  wrinkled,  cunning  advocates 

Quote  mummied  precedents  and  rules, 

The  relics  of  barbaric  states, 

The  maxims  of  med'eval  schools. 

For  him  the  tyrant's  guard  is  set, 
For  him  the  bigot's  fagots  fired, 

For  him  the  headsman's  ax  is  whet, 

And  chains  are  forged  and  minions  hired. 

Strong  in  his  purpose,  patient  still, 

He  wrestles  with  the  doubts  of  mind, 

And  shakes  the  iron  thews  of  will, 
As  oaks  are  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Invincible  in  God  and  Truth, 

To  smite  the  errors  of  his  age 
He  gives  the  fiery  force  of  youth, 

The  tempered  wisdom  of  the  sage. 

He  sees,  as  prophets  saw  afar, 

In  faith  and  vision  wrapped  sublime, 

The  coming  of  the  Morning  Star, 
The  glory  of  the  latter  time. 

His  faith,  outreaching  circumstance, 
Beholds,  beyond  the  narrow  range 

Of  present  time,  the  slow  advance 

Of  cycles  bringing  wondrous  change. 

He  hears  the  mighty  march  of  mind, 
The  stately  steppings  of  the  free, 

Where  glorious  in  the  sun  and  wind. 
Their  blazoned  banners  yet  shall  be. 


34 


THE   REFORMER. 


Well  can  he  wait :  the  seed  that  lies 

Hid  in  the  cold,  repulsive  clay, 
Shall  burst  in  after  centuries, 

And  spread  its  glories  to  the  day. 

Well  can  he  wait :  though  sown  in  tears 

And  martyred  blood,  with  scourge  and  stripe, 

God  watches  through  the  whirling  years, 
And  quickens  when  the  hour  is  ripe. 

Man's  hands  may  fail,  the  slackened  rein 
Drop  from  his  nerveless  grasp,  but  still 

The  wheels  shall  thunder  on  the  plain, 
Rolled  by  the  lightning  of  his  will. 


FORT   DU  OUESNE: 

A   HISTORICAL  CENTENNIAL  BALLAD. 
November  25, 1758—1858. 

I. 

OME,  fill  the  beaker,  while  we  chaunt  a  pean  of  old  days : 
By  Mars  !  no  men  shall  live  again  more  worthy  of  our  praise, 
Than  they  who  stormed  at  Louisburg  and  Frontenac  amain, 
And  shook  the  English  standard  out  o'er  the  ruins  of  Du  Quesne. 


For  glorious  were  the  days  they  came,  the  soldiers  strong  and  true, 
And  glorious  were  the  days,  they  came  for  Pennsylvania,  too  ; 
When  marched  the  troopers  sternly  on  through  forest's  autumn  brown, 
And  where  St.  George's  cross  was  rajsed,  the  oriflanime  went  down. 

Virginia  sent  her  chivalry  and  Maryland  her  brave, 

And  Pennsylvania  to  the  cause  her  noblest  yeomen  gave  : 

O,  and  proud  were  they  who  wore  the  garb  of  Indian  hunters  then, 

For  every  sturdy  youth  was  worth  a  score  of  common  men  ! 

They  came  from  Carolina's  pines,  from  fruitful  Delaware — • 
The  staunchest  and  the  stoutest  of  the  chivalrous  were  there  ; 
And  calm  and  tall  above  them  all,  i'  the  red  November  sun, 
Like  Saul  above  his  brethren,  rode  Colonel  Washington. 

O'er  leagues  of  wild  and  waste  they  passed,  they  forded  stream  and  fen, 
Where  danger  lurked  in  every  glade,  and  death  in  every  glen  ; 
They  heard  the  Indian  ranger's  cry,  the  Frenchman's  far-off  hail, 
From  purple  distance  echoed  back  through  the  hollows  of  the  vale. 


36  FORT  DU   QUESNE. 

And  ever  and  anon  they  came,  along  their  dangerous  way, 

Where,  ghastly,  'mid  the  yellow  leaves,  their  slaughtered  comrades  lay  : 

The  tartans  of  Grant's  Highlanders  were  sodden  yet  and  red, 

As  routed  in  the  rash  assault  the}-  perished  as  they  fled. 

— Ah  !  many  a  lass  ayont  the  Tweed  shall  rue  the  fatal  fray, 
And  high  Virginian  dames  shall  mourn  the  ruin  of  that  day, 
When  gallant  lad  and  cavalier  i'  the  wilderness  were  slain, 
'Twixt  laureled  Loyalhanna  and  the  outposts  of  Du  Quesne. 

And  there  before  them  was  the  field  of  massacre  and  blood, 

Of  panic,  rout  and  shameful  flight,  in  that  disastrous  wood 

Where  Halket  fell  and  Braddock  died,  with  many  a  noble  one 

Whose  white  bones  glistened  through  the  leaves  i'  the  pale  November  sun. 

Then  spoke  the  men  of  Braddock's  Field,  and  hung  their  heads  in  shame, 
For  England's  tarnished  honor  and  for  England's  sullied  fame; 
"And,  by  St.  George!"  the  soldiers  swore,  "we'll  wipe  away  the  stain 
Before  to-morrow's  sun -set,  at  the  trenches  of  Du  Quesne." 

n. 

'Twas  night  along  the  autumn  hills,  the  sun's  November  gleam 
Had  left  its  crimson  on  the  leaves,  its  tinge  upon  the  stream  ; 
And  Hermit  Silence  kept  his  watch  'mid  ancient  rocks  and  trees, 
And  placed  his  finger  on  the  lip  of  babbling  brook  and  breeze. 

The  bivouac  's  set  by  Turtle  Creek  :  and  while  the  soldiers  sleep. 
The  swarthy  chiefs  around  their  fires  an  anxious  council  keep. 
Some  spoke  of  murmurs  in  the  camp,  scarce  whispered  to  the  air, 
But  tokens  of  discouragement,  the  presage  of  despair. 

Some  a  retreat  advised  ;  'twas  late ;  the  winter  drawing  on  : 
The  forage  and  provision,  too — so  Ormsby  said — were  gone 
Men  could  not  feed  on  air  and  fight  :  whatever  Pitt  might  say. 
In  praise  or  censure,  still,  they  thought,  'twere  wiser  to  delay. 


FORT   DU   QUESNE.  37 

Then  up  spoke  iron-headed  Forbes,  and  through  his  feeble  frame 
There  ran  the  lightning  of  a  will  that  put  them  all  to  shame  : 
"I'll  hear  no  more,"  he  roundly  swore  ;  "we'll  storm  the  fort  amain! 
I'll  sleep  in  h — 1  to-morrow  night,  or  sleep  in  Fort  Du  Quesne!" 

So  said :  and  each  to  sleep  addressed  his  wearied  limbs  and  mind, 

And  all  was  hushed  i'  the  forest,  save  the  sobbing  of  the  wind, 

And  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  the  sentinel,  who  started  oft  in  fright 

At  the  shadows  wrought  'mid  the  giant  trees  by  the  fitful  camp-fire  light. 

Good  Lord !  what  sudden  glare  is  that  that  reddens  all  the  sky, 

As  though  hell's  legions  rode  the  air  and  tossed  their  torches  high  ! 

Up,  men !  the  alarm  drum  beats  to  arms !  and  the  solid  ground  seems  riven 

By  the  shock  of  warring  thunderbolts  in  the  lurid  depth  of  heaven  ! 

O  there  was  clattering  of  steel,  and  mustering  in  array, 

And  shouts  and  wild  huzzas  of  men,  impatient  of  delay, 

As  came  the  scouts  swift-footed  in — "  They  fly!  the  foe!  they  fly  ! 

They've  fired  the  powder  magazine  and  blown  it  to  the  sky!" 

in. 

Now  morning  o'er  the  frosty  hills  in  autumn  splendor  came, 
And  touched  the  rolling  mists  with  gold,  and  flecked  the  clouds  with  flame ; 
And  through  the  brown  woods  on  the  hills — those  altars  of  the  world — 
The  blue  smoke  from  the  settler's  hut  and  Indian's  wigwam  curled. 

Yet  never,  here,  had  morning  dawned  on  such  a  glorious  din 
Of  twanging  trump,  and  rattling  drum,  and  clanging  culverin, 
And  glittering  arms  and  sabre  gleams  and  serried  ranks  of  men, 
Who  marched  with  banners  high  advanced  along  the  river  glen. 

O,  and  royally  they  bore  themselves  who  knew  that  o'er  the  seas 
Would  speed  the  glorious  tidings  from  the  loyal  Colonies, 
Of  the  fall  of  French  dominion  with  the  fall  of  Fort  Du  Quesne, 
And  the  triumph  of  the  English  arms  from  Erie  to  Champlain. 


38  FORT   DU   QUESNE. 

Before  high  noon  they  halted ;  and  while  they  .stood  at  rest, 
They  saw,  unfolded  gloriously  the  "  Gateway . of  the  West," 
There  flashed  the  Alleghen}',  like  a  scimetar  of  gold, 
And  king-like  in  its  majesty,  Monongahela  rolled : 

Beyond,  the  River  Beautiful  swept  down  the  woody  vales, 

Where  Commerce,  ere  a  century  passed,  should  .spread  her  thousand  sails  ; 

Between  the  hazy  hills  they  saw  Contrecceur's  armed  batteaux, 

And  the  flying,  flashing,  feathery  oars  of  the  Ottawas"  canoes. 

Then,  on  from  rank  to  rank  of  men,  a  shout  of  triumph  ran, 

And  while  the  cannon  thundered,  the  leader  of  the  van, 

The  tall  Virginian,  mounted  on  the  walls  that  smouldered  yet, 

And  shook  the  English  standard  out,  and  named  the  place  Fort  Pitt. 

Again  with  wild  huzzas  the  hills  and  river  valleys  ring, 
And  they  swing  their  loyal  caps  in  air,  and  shout — "  Long  live  the  King! 
"Long  life  unto  King  George  !"  the}-  cry,   "and  glorious  be  the  reign 
That  adds  to  English  statesmen  Pitt,  to  English  arms  Du  Quesne." 


ODE. 


XE  hundred  years  ago  to-day, 
In  martial  state  the  heroes  came, 

To  plant  within  the  wilderness 
Their  grand  old  English  name  and  fame. 

They  saw  the  glory  of  the  land, 


The  realm  of  nations  yet  to  be. 
And  wrested  from  the  allied  foe 
The  Empire  of  the  Free. 


ODE.  39 


United  thus  may  Saxon  sires 
And  sons  forever  face  the  foe, 

And  strike  for  Freedom  as  they  struck 
One  hundred  years  ago. 

n. 

One  hundred  years  have  passed — and  Peace 

In  golden  fullness  o'er  us  reigns, 
Full  Plenty  smiles  on  all  our  hills, 

And  Gladness  sings  in  all  our  plains. 
The  flag  of  freemen  greets  the  air 

Where  waved  the  standard  of  our  sires, 
And  all  their  altars  still  are  bright 
With  Freedom's  sacred  fires. 

Here  Fame  shall  keep  in  hoi}'  trust 

The  names  of  those  who  met  the  foe, 
And  won  for  us  this  glorious  land 
One  hundred  j'ears  ago. 

in. 

So  aid  us,  Heaven,  to  keep  our  trust, 

That  in  the  coming  centuries, 
They'll  say,  Where  truth  and  valor  live 

The  light  of  Freedom  never  dies. 
God  of  our  fathers  !  keep  us  still 

The  chosen  people  of  Thy  hand, 
One  in  our  fealty  to  Thee, 
One  to  our  native  land. 

O  guide  us,  while  we  watch  and  guard, 

From  inward  strife  and  outward  foe, 
The  heritage  so  nobly  won 
One  hundred  3rears  ago. 


PITTSBURG. 


EILED  in  thick  clouds,  shut  in  by  shelving  hills, 
The  city  of  a  thousand  forges  lies. 
Nor  feels  the  pleasant  glow  of  sunny  skies. 
Hard  toil  have  they  who,  in  her  thundering  mills. 
Stir  the  white-heated  metal  or  draw  out 


The  lengthening  bar,  or  at  the  ponderous  wheel 
Turn  the  huge  shaft  and  shape  the  edging  steel. 
How  like  a  hell  from  pit  and  chimney  spout 
The  tumbling  smoke  and  lapping  flames  that  light 
The  sky  like  torches,  and  reflecting  quiver 
Along  the  tremulous  surface  of  the  river. 
Unlovely  though  she  be,  in  Freedom's  might 
Her  strong  hands  build — buttress  and  tower  and  crest — 
The  iron  gate-way  to  the  golden  West. 


A    SONNET. 


JIO  delicate  and  fair  !  to  me  thou  art 

A  semblance  of  the  frailest,  tenderest  thing 
That  blooms  on  earth  or  sports  on  silken  wing. 
Child  of  the  skies,  of  Heaven  the  purest  part, 
Yet  all  of  woman  in  thy  loving  heart ! 

Thou  cam'st  to  us  when  the  mild  airs  of  spring 
Blew  open  the  first  flowers  ;  when  first  birds  sing 
In  the  fresh-budding  forests  thou' It  depart 
Like  them,  I  fear,  when  life's  declining  year 

Brings  the  rough  winds  and  pitiless  storms,  that  fly 
Like  angty  fiends  across  the  sullen  sky, 
And  the  dark  days, — dull,  desolate  and  drear. 
Who  then  shall  answer  to  my  heart's  lone  sigh  ? 
Or  who  regret  the  loss  when  sick  of  life  I  die  ? 


MOUNT  GILBO. 

HOULDST  thou  e'er  visit  Mount  Gilbo, 
Fail  not  at  early  morn  to  go, 
When  the  crimson  Orient  spreads  a  glow 
O'er  the  mountain's  ancient  robe  of  snow- 
When  flash  the  long,  swift  lines  of  light 


Into  the  valleys  that  clasp  the  night, 
And  the  mists  that  cover  glen  and  wold 
Roll  off  like  a  sea  of  molten  gold. 

High  is  the  peak  of  Mount  Gilbo, 
Robed  in  a  thousand  winters'  snow, 
Jagged  and  forked  its  massive  rocks, 
Rent  by  lightning  and  thunder  shocks  — 
vScathed  by  the  tempest's  glance  of  light 
Rushing  by  on  the  wings  of  night ; 
Deep  are  the  gorges  on  its  sides, 
Fearful  the  chasms  where  gloom  abides, 
Where  torrents  roar  and  boil  and  hiss, 
Down  in  the  fathomless,  black  abyss. 

Beautiful  glaciers  on  Mount  Gilbo  ! 
Beautiful,  ay,  when  the  sun's  first  glow 
Touches  their  domes  and  their  crystal  spires, 
Lighting  them  up  with  a  thousand  fires  ; 
Weaving  the  many  hues  that  form 
The  iris-arch  on  the  flying  storm 
Into  some  rare  and  rich  device, 
In  each  atom  of  lucent  ice. 


MOUNT   GILBO.  43 

Not  the  irradiate  halls  that  lie 

Far  from  the  ken  of  mortal  eye, 

Down  in  the  green  depths  of  the  sea, 

Can  by  half  so  radiant  be, 

Though  they  be  flooded  with  fairy  light, 

Mystical,  glorious,  dazzling,  bright. 

Ever  changing,  but  always  fair, 

Shaping  to  something  quaint  and  rare, 

Now  a  mosque,  with  minarets 

Tipt  and  blazoned  with  jasper  sets, 

Now  a  temple,  lofty  and  old, 

Fretted  with  amethyst  and  gold, 

Again,  a  forest  of  burnished  spears, 

Brighter  as  clearer  the  sun  appears, 

Whose  scintillant  tips  like  brilliants  show 

Over  the  frozen  hills  of  snow. 

Thus  do  the  glaciers  of  Mount  Gilbo, 

Sparkle  and  shimmer  and  flash  and  glow, 

Till  they  seem  to  change  in  the  broad  sun's  glare 

To  phantasies  in  the  frosty  air. 

Solemn  the  night  that  gathers  round 

Those  icy  heights  in  the  vast  profound, 

When  the  stars  look  out  from  pure  blue  skies, 

Clearer,  brighter  and  larger  in  size, 

Down  on  the  peak  of  old  Gilbo, 

Sternly  bold  in  his  robe  of  snow. 

Silently  cuts  the  raven's  wing 

Through  the  cold,  cold  mountain  air, 
As  though  fearing  the  Tempest  King, 

Who  brews  the  storm  and  hurricane  there. 
In  the  forest  far  below, 
From  hoar  oaks  green  with  mistletoe, 
Hoots  the  owl  and  caws  the  crow, 


44  MOUNT  GILBO. 


And  the  wail  of  the  woods  is  long  and  deep, 

As  the  winds  through  countless  branches  sweep, 

Tossing  the  tall  tops  to  and  fro, 

Very  majestically  and  slow, 

Like  the  plumes  of  a  craped  and  bannered  train, 

When  hearts  beat  sad  for  the  mighty  gone, 
And  feet  are  heavy  that  would  remain 

Where  greatness  sleeps  in  the  dust  alone. 

Dismal  the  night  when  the  tempest  whines, 
Through  the  boughs  of  the  stunted  pines, 
When  ominous  voices  call  aloud 
From  caverned  rock  and  sable  cloud, 
And  the  fires  of  heaven  glance  and  leap 
From  crag  to  crag,  and  from  steep  to  steep. 
And  the  solid  walls  of  granite  rock, 
As  rent  by  an  earthquake's  rumbling  shock: 
Then  the  demons  of  mountain  gloom 
Issue  forth  from  each  cavern-tomb, 
And  horrible  shapes  and  phantoms  fly 

On  the  ragged  folds  of  the  raven  clouds, 
And  ghouls  and  gnomes  go  gibbering  b}*, 

And  the  ghosts  of  the  wicked  walk  in  shrouds. 
O  God  !  'tis  a  fearful  thing  to  stay 

Where  the  avalanche  hurls  its  bolts  of  snow, 
And  thunders  sound  a  reveille 

Amid  the  passes  of  Mount  Gilbo. 


THE   HERMIT   OF  MOUNT  GILBO, 
AND  THE  ANGEL  CONVOY,    CHRISTMAS   NIGHT. 


HE  snows  came  down  on  the  mountain 

brown, 

White  and  soft  as  the  cygnet's  down ; 
The  stunted  pines  on  the  shelving  steeps 
Bent  with  the  pure  and  crystal  heaps, 
The  winds  were  low,  the  torrents  still, 
The  snows  lay  evenly  on  the  hill, 


And  evening  shades  were  coming  down 

On  valley  dark  and  mountain  brown. 

The  bells  swang  joyfully  to  and  fro, 
Right  jollily  and  merrily, 
Right  laughingly  and  cheerily, 
In  the  belfry  tower  of  the  convent  dim, 

Down  in  the  vale  that  lay  below, 

Under  the  shadow  of  Mount  Gilbo, 

Where  the  nuns  were  chanting  the  Advent  Hymn. 

For  it  was  Michaelmas'  joyful  time, 

The  bells  were  ringing  a  lively  chime, 

When  the  snows  and  the  evening  shades  came  down 

On  the  murky  vale  and  the  mountain  brown. 

In  a  cavern  of  Mount  Gilbo 

Dwelt  a  hermit,  a  pious  man, 

He  was  hight  ' '  good  Hilde  Ban  ; ' ' 
His  gray  beard  down  to  his  knees  did  flow, 

His  long  locks  over  his  shoulders  fell, 
Whiter  with  eld  than  the  mountain  snow, 

But  his  eye  was  bright  as  a  young  gazelle's. 


46  THE   HERMIT  OF  MOUNT  GILBO. 


Who  he  was,  or  whence  he  came, 

OT  gentle  blood  or  the  child  of  shame. 

None  did  know,  but  man}-  a  tale 

Was  told  by  the  peasants  in  the  vale, 

Of  the  merciful  deeds  of  Hilde  Ban, 

Who  was  deemed  by  all  a  marvelous  man. 

Many  a  year  had  he  dwelt  there  ; 

His  food  was  the  scantiest,  coarsest  fare, 

And  his  drink,  of  the  pure  and  crystal  rill, 

Leaping  to  light  from  the  rocky  hill. 

His  garb  was  coarse — a  flowing  coat, 

Made  from  the  hair  of  the  mountain  goat, 

Spun  and  wove  in  its  native  hue, 

A  sort  of  mixture  of  gray  and  blue. 

Deep  in  the  gloom  of  his  awful  cell, 

That  suited  his  mournful  ways  right  well, 

Sat  the  hermit  Christmas  eve, 

And  heartily  o'er  his  sins  did  grieve, 

Then  knelt  he  down  on  the  cold,  damp  stone, 

Very  solemnly  and  alone — 

Before  Madonna's  statue  knelt, 

Muttered  his  "Ave"  o'er  and  o'er, 
Bowed  to  the  hard  and  flint}-  floor, 
And  through  the  darkness  feebly  felt 
For  the  silent  stone  :  and  kissed  the  toe, 
Saying  his  Aves  slow  and  low, 
While  chattered  his  teeth  with  the  bitter  cold. 
And  blue  were  his  features  shrivelled  and  old ; 
Counted  his  beads  with  numb,  thin  hands, 
Regularly  as  the  sands 
Through  the  hour-glass  stilly  fall. 
Or  the  tick  of  a  clock  in  an  antique  hall, 
When  the  rooks  in  the  dead  night-watches  call 
Clasped  he  them  in  his  hands  so  cold, 
So  skeleton,  bony,  stiff  and  old. 
And  still  his  paternosters  told. 


THE   HERMIT   OF   MOUNT   GILBO.  47 

Then  lay  him  down  on  the  rocks  so  bare, 
Where  swept  the  keen  and  nipping  air, 
Where  crept  the  frosts  that  silently  were 
Busy,  busy  everywhere  : 
Clasped  his  crucifix  in  prayer : 
Lay  him  down  in  his  mountain  cell, 
And  deep  sleep  on  his  spirit  fell — 
Jesu,  Marie !  shield  him  well  ! 

In  his  vision  he  saw,  and  io ! 

His  cell  with  light  was  all  aglow — • 

With  spectral  brilliancy  aglow ! 

It  shimmered  and  flashed  on  the  frosty  wall, 

Brighter  than  shines  in  palace  hall, 

When  high  is  the  voice  of  festival ; 

And  there  was  music  unutterable : 

The  ear  might  hear — tongue  can  not  tell 

Howr  soft  on  his  ravished  ear  it  fell. 

He  smiled — how  sweet !    in  his  raptured  sleep, 

His  skeleton  hands  the  measure  keep ; 

And  he  laughed  aloud,  did  Hilde  Ban, 

That  grave  and  pious-hearted  man  ! 

He  laughed  aloud,  he  laughed  for  joy, 

He  was  never  so  glad  since  when  a  bo}- ! 

The  statue  of  Madonna  .shone, 

With  a  glory  from  the  Father's  throne ; 

And  by  his  side  an  angel  stood, 

And  called  him  "Hilde  Ban  the  good:" 

He  was  clad  in  raiment  like  to  gold, 

Exceedingly  beautiful  to  behold, 

And  a  crown  of  light  was  on  his  head  ; 
His  smile  a  great  approval  told 

Of  the  pious  life  the  hermit  led. 
Much  was  Hilde  Ban's  surprise, 
And  he  humbly  veiled  his  dazzled  eyes, 


48  THE   HERMIT  OF  MOUNT   GILBO. 

And  he  bowed  to  the  presence  from  the  skies. 

His  was  holy  awe  and  pious  fear 

As  the  angel  cried,  "What  do'st  thou  here? 

Lo !  Hilde  Ban,  I  have  come  for  thee ! 

Thou  hast  suffered  much,  and  hast  borne  it  well, 

In  sorrow  thou  no  more  shalt  dwell, 

Thou'st  been  a  brother  to  thy  kind, 

Hast  served  thy  God  with  heart  and  mind, 

Come  up  with  me,  come  up  with  me ; ' ' 
And  holy  voices  loudly  cried, 
And  unseen  voices  on  every  side, 
Through  all  the  glorified  air  replied, 

•'Come  up  with  me,  come  up  with  me." 
***** 

At  dapple  dawn  the  following  day, 

A  chamois  hunter  passed  that  way — 

As  rnerr}'  a  free-born  mountaineer 

As  hunted  the  antelope  and  deer: 

Joyously  sang  he  his  roundelay, 

As  he  groped  to  the  hermit's  cell  his  way ; 

For  he  loved  the  anchorite  old  and  gray, 

And  he  brought  him  food ;  but  when  he  found 

The  hermit  stark  on  the  flinty  ground, 

"God's  sooth!"  cried  he,  "he's  in  a  swound  ! " 

And  a  very  long  breath  the  hunter  drew, 

His  brown,  plump  features  softer  grew, 

And  his  eye-lids  seemed  to  drop  with  dew, 

As  kindly  he  raised  the  old  man's  head, 

And  found  that  Hilde  Ban  was  dead ! 

But  nothing  knew  he  of  the  glad,  glad  sight 

That  the  hermit  saw  but  3rester-even, 
That  made  him  laugh  in  his  sleep  outright. 
When  the  angels  came  on  Christmas  night, 

And  bore  his  pious  soul  to  heaven. 


W' 


J&L  "'    ";     - 


- 


A    WOMAN'S   TEAR. 


THINK  not  that  the  strength  of  prayer 
Is  breathed  alone  in  words  of  flame, 

The  whirlwind  might  of  eloquence 

When  roused  by  conscious  wrong  is  tame- 

Is  tame  when  measured  by  that  power, 


Deep,  silent,  earnest  and  sincere, 
Which  melts  the  will  as  wax  to  flame, 
And  voiceless  pleads  in  woman's  tear. 


A   POOR   MAN'S  THANKSGIVING. 


ET  him  who  eats  not,  think  he  eats, 
'Tis  one  to  him  who  last  year  said, 

"  My  neighbor  dines  011  dainty  sweets 
And  I  on  coarser  bread." 


He  who  on  sugar  angels  fares 
Hath  pangs  beneath  his  silken  vest ; 

The  rougher  life  hath  fewer  cares — 
Who  fasts  hath  sounder  rest. 

If  lean  the  bod\-,  light  the  wings  ; 

His  fanc}r  hath  more  verge  and  room, 
Who  feasts  upon  the  wind  that  brings 

The  flowers  of  hope  to  bloom. 

So,  if  no  smoking  turkey  grace 
This  day  my  clean  but  humble  board, 

I'll  think  what  might  have  been  my  case 
If  rich,  and  thank  the  Lord. 

No  gout  awaits  my  coming  age, 
No  bulbous  nose  like  lobster  red, 

To  vex  my  temper  into  rage, 
Or  fill  im*  days  with  dread. 

Leave  to  the  rich  his  roast  and  wine ; 

Death  waits  on  him  who  waits  for  all ; 
The  doctor  will  be  there  by  nine, 

By  twelve  the  priest  will  call. 

Lord,  in  all  wholesome,  moderate  ways 
Keep  me,  lest  it  should  hap  me  worse : 

Teach  one  to  fill  his  mouth  with  praise 
Who  never  filled  his  purse. 


EN    MEMOIRE. 

(AMELIA  B.  WELBY.) 


LOSE  the  dim  eyes  with  tenderness- 

her  rest 

Is  as  an  infant's,  knowing  naught  of  care ; 
Fold  the  cold  arms  upon  her  lily  breast : 
'Tis  well — -'Us  well  :  lay  back  the  long,  dark  hair, 
And  place  a  rose  in  its  first  blushes  there. 
'Tis  well — 'Tis  well  :  she  loved  a  rose  in  bloom, 
And  life  near  death  looks  beautiful  and  fair — 
There  seems  a  spirit  in  that  rose  perfume 
That,  like  unchanging  love,   survives  beyond  the  tomb. 

Smooth  down  the  pillow  softly — so — 'tis  well, 
And  tenderU^  compose  her  form  to  sleep : 
Look  now — how  beautiful  !  ye  can  not  tell 
In  words  the  sorrow  that  in  tears  ye  weep. 
Once  more — it  is  the  last  fond  look  ! — how  deep, 
How  strong  the  vitterance  for  the  loss  you  moan  ! 


54  EN   MEMOIRE. 

All's  over  now! — no  more  you'll  need  to  keep 
The  watch  of  love  and  pity ;  she  is  gone 
%     Forever  from  your  sight,  and  oh,  your  heart  how  lone! 

But  yesterday,  and  like  the  rising  lark 
She  caroled  in  the  glory  of  her  song ; 
Before  the  coming  on  of  eve,  how  dark 
Death's  solemn  messengers  around  her  throng ! 
You  saw  the  shadows  that  to  graves  belong 
Dim  the  clear  lustre  of  her  peaceful  eyes ; 
You  saw  the  red  hue  come  and  go,  and  long 
You  hoped,  until,  unloosed  life's  tender  ties, 
She  died,  as  music's  strain  in  the  far  echo  dies. 

For  her  I  weep,  though  stranger  to  her  thought 
And  to  her  presence,  yet  to  me  her  strain 
Was  an  unsullied  pleasure,  overwrought 
Sometimes  by  joy's  intensity  to  pain  ; 
And  though  to  her  my  tears  are  as  the  rain 
Upon  the  sterile  desert  to  the  rose 
The  bulbul  sings  to  —  useless,  idle,  vain  — 
Yet  must  I  weep ;  for  not  the  least  of  woes, 
To  one  who  loves  a  song,  is  its  eternal  close. 

Weave  me  a  garland  of  the  asphodel, 
The  dark-leaved  cypress  and  the  mournful  yew, 
Bring  hither  locust  boughs  from  yonder  dell, 
Wall-flowers  of  scarlet,  night-shades  palely  blue, 
And  grave-grown  myrtle  weeping  wet  with  dew. 
They  do  accord  with  mournfulness,  and  bear 
A  sympath}'  to  sorrow,  and  renew 
The  hope  of  happiness,  and  breathe  a  prayer 
For  those  who  from  our  sight  have  gone  where  angels  are. 


EN    MEMOIRE.  55 

Wail  low,  ye  winds  ;  babble,  thou  thoughtless  stream 
To  the  rose  bending  o'er  thee  —  what  to  me 
Or  mine  art  thou  ?  Swift  as  thy  flow  the  stream 
Of  life  sweeps  onward  to  eternity. 
A  moment,  and  we  are  no  more  to  be  ; 
No  record  of  our  names,  no  tongue  to  tell 
That  here  I  wandered  weeping  near  by  thee, 
And  bowed  my  spirit  to  a  stroke  that  fell 
Upon  that  better  one  whose  being  was  a  spell. 

A  spell  of  song ;  ay,  such  a  spell  as  charmed 
All  passionate  ears  in  Arqua's  quiet  vale  ; 
Or  in  thy  Tuscan  lays,  Bocaccio,  warmed 
The  magic  fervency  of  many  a  tale  ; 
Or  in  St.  Anna's  prison  did  prevail 
O'er  a  heart  eat  with  sorrow,  till  the  night 
Of  the  long  solitude  began  to  fail 
In  the  clear  flame  of  Tasso's  fancy's  flight, 
Which  round  those  prison  walls  still  sheds  a  hallowed  light. 

Simple  and  graceful  was  thy  easy  lay, 
And  unpremeditated  as  the  lark's  clear  note, 
When  morning  purples  on  the  hill-tops  grey. 
Around  us  still  their  mingled  echoes  float 
With  a  remembered  gladness  ;  and  remote, 
In  other  lands,  where'er  the  Saxon  tongue 
Makes  itself  music,  shall  the  strain  thou'st  wrote 
Charm  all  whose  hearts  to  beauty  thrill  or  long 
For  inborn  melody  that  shapes  itself  to  song. 


EN   MEMOIRE. 

But  these,  thy  groves,  thy  native  hills  and  vales, 
Where  thou,  their  minstrel,  hast  enchanted  long, 
Shall  hallowed  be  —  thy  spirit  here  prevails  ! 
Like  St.  Cecelia,  thou  didst  come  in  song, 
And  hast  departed  with  it,  and  no  wrong 
Hath  marred  its  sweetness :  thou  wilt  be  confessed, 
Life's  true  interpreter,  by  many  a  tongue 
In  after  years,  when  we  forgotten  rest  — 
AMELIA  of  our  hearts,  sweet  songstress  of  the  West. 


OUR    COUNTRY'S   FLAG. 

ET  faction  assail  or  oppression  invade, 

Let  treachery  threaten  or  intrigue  divide, 
'Neath  that  banner  will  freemen  draw  swiftly  the  blade, 

And  sweep  back  the  foe  as  weeds  swept  by  the  tide. 
Wherever  those  stars  shall  bespangle  the  sky 
There  will  freemen  be  found  to  defend  them,  or  die  ! 
Shine  stars  of  the  Union  ! 

Wave  flag  of  the  free  ! 
The  hope  of  the  nations 

Is  centered  in  thee ! 

We  swear  to  defend,  by  the  souls  of  the  brave, 
It's  honor,  wherever  that  banner  shall  wave. 

Are  the  stars  on  our  banner  less  brilliant  to-day, 

Than  when,  in  the  hour  of  their  trial  and  gloom, 
The  heroes  we  honor  the}'  led  to  the  fray, 

To  conquer  for  freedom  or  hallow  her  tomb? 
Do  we  love  them  the  less,  as  they  glitter  afar, 
Our  herald  in  peace  and  our  standard  in  war? 
By  the  deeds  of  the  valiant, 

The  blood  of  the  slain, 
By  the  rights  that  we  cherish, 

The  cause  we  maintain, 

Their  honor  we  swear,  by  the  souls  of  the  brave, 
To  guard  well  wherever  our  banner  shall  wave  ! 


LOVE'S   HERALDS. 

OVE'S  Mercuries  are  invisible  ;  they  come 

And  sing,  like  Ariel,  in  the  enchanted  air, 
While  we  with  wonder  and  delight  sit  dumb, 
Not  knowing  how  it  is,  nor  whence,  nor  where ; 
And  they,  like  swans  that  rest  on  billowy  seas, 

Glide  on  the  gently  pulsing  melodies, 
While  we  start — listen — cry  in  glad  surprise 

" 'Tis  here!"  and  the  next  moment  Echo  cries,   "'tis  there! 


HEAVEN'S   EVANGELS. 

HE  tenderest  flower  the  soonest  dies, 

The  sweetest  strain  seems  soonest  ended 
The  beautiful  but  tempts  our  eyes, 
Then,  still  enticing,  mounts  the  skies, 
And  with  the  world  unseen  is  blended. 

And  so  the  gifts  we  most  approve, 

From  heaven  sent  down,  to  us  are  given 
To  link  our  hearts  to  them  in  love, 
Which  done,  they  pass  from  earth  above. 
And,  thus  our  hearts  are  drawn  to  heaven. 


OSSIAN   TO    HIS   HARP. 


\REWELL  my  harp !     In  Cona's  vale 

Thy  trembling  strings  shall  wake  no  more 

The  master's  skillful  fingers  fail, 
The  minstrel's  song  is  o'er. 

Wild  harp  of  Selma,  to  thy  tone 


No  more  shall  valiant  bosoms  thrill, 
Nor  beauty's  sighs  thy  passion  own — 
Neglected — broken — still . 

In  Lutha's  vale  the  bard  will  sleep 

Near  rocks  where  purple  thistles  bloom, 
And  heroes'  shades  their  vigils  keep 

Around  the  minstrel's  tomb. 
But  thou  divinest !  who  shall  call 

The  spirit  from  thy  slumbering  strings, 
When  o'er  thy  master's  bier  the  pall 

Its  mournful  sable  flings? 

Companion  of  my  song,  thy  strain 

To  deeds  of  glory  called  the  brave, 
Or  wailed  when  on  the  martial  plain 

Was  heaped  the  warriors'  grave. 
Round  thee,  enchanter !  ne'er  again 

Shall  Morven's  chieftains  throng; 
And  vSelma's  maids  will  seek  in  vain 

The  magic  of  my  song. 


OSSIAN   TO    HIS   HARP.  6l 

Alas!  my  days  of  song  are  o'er; 

The  sword  hangs  idle  on  the  wall, 
The  voice  of  Cona  sounds  no  more 

In  Fingal's  silent  hall. 
By  Mora's  rock  my  step  shall  fail,* 

To  heather  flowers  my  head  be  press' d, 
Nor  can  the  rude  and  sounding  gale 

Disturb  the  minstrel's  rest. 

Hung  on  the  oak  by  Mora's  stone, 

In  mournful  muteness  thou'lt  deplore 
The  Car-borne  Fingal's  mighty  son,  f 

The  bard,  whose  song  is  o'er ; 
Then,  harp  of  Selma,  thou  wilt  tell 

The  winds  that  oft  thy  strings  shall  tr)-, 
The  minstrel's  spirit  still  doth  dwell 

In  every  broken  sigh. 

The  noble  chiefs  of  future  years 

Shall  hear,  sweet  harp,  thy  growing  fame, 
And  beauty's  fairest  lips,  with  tears 

Repeat  the  minstrel's  name. 
Wild  harp  of  Selma,  though  thy  strings 

Neglected  and  forgotten  lie, 
The  spirit  of  thy  song  still  sings 

In  every  broken  sigh. 


By  the  stone  of  Mora  I  shall  fall  asleep. 

1  The  hunter  shall  come  forth  in  the  morning,  and  the  voice  of  my  harp  shall  be  heard  no  more, 
Where  is  the  son  of  Car-borne  Fingal?"  and  the  tear  shall  be  on  his  cheek.—  Ossian. 


TELL    ME   TRUE. 


Now  the  springing  grasses  spread 

In  the  pastures  where  the  flags  and  willows  grow, 
For  the  tender  lambs  a  bed  ; 

And  the  bob-o-links  are  there, 

Waking  into  song  the  air 
Of  the  valley  in  the  sunlight  all  aglow. 


ii. 

There  dainty  sweets  must  be 

The  pale  anemone. 
There  buttercups  and  crocus  tinct  with  gold 

And  roses,  wild  and  rare, 

In  the  music  breathing  air 
Blush  with  secrets  love  in  whispers  there  has  told. 


TELL   ME   TRUE.  63 


III. 

O,  children  tell  me  true, 

Are  the  skies  as  bright  to  you, 
And  the  wimple  of  the  brook  as  soft  and  low, 

As  when  I,  without  a  care, 

Gathered  early  cowslips  there 
In  the  splendor  of  the  morning  long  ago  ? 

IV. 

Then  lead  me  by  the  hand, 
O'er  the  pleasant,  pleasant  land, 

Through  orchards  fair  and  meadows  let  us  go ; 
But  the  hearts  that  beat  with  mine 
In  the  days  that  seemed  divine, 

O,  ye  dearlings  of  my  soul,  ye  can  not  know. 


THE  HERO  OF   THE   ARCTIC. 


"  Stuart  Hollins  could  not  be  induced  to  leave  the  ship ;  his  post  was  at  the  guns  from  first  to  last, 
giving  signals;  he  kept  firing  at  intervals,  till  the  ship  went  down.  We  saw  him  in  the  very  act  oi' 
firing  as  the  vessel  disappeared  under  the  water."-  Tallin's  Statement. 


N  the  quarter  deck  of  the  Arctic  stood 

The  hero  boy,  undaunted, 
Like  Faith  with  her  calm  heart  unsubdued, 

And  her  angel  face  enchanted, 
While  stout  hearts  quailed  and  wildly  rose 


The  tempest  of  commotion, 
The  brave  boy  gave  the  signal  guns 
To  the  mistv  waste  of  ocean. 


ii. 

Despair  and  the  phantom  terrors  round 

The  masts  and  spars  are  flying, 
While  wildly  sweep  o'ei  the  surging  waves 

The  shrieks  of  the  lost  and  dying. 
But  hark  !  though  the  death  pall  hangs  above 

And  the  grave  is  yawning  under, 
The  signal  gun  through  the  misty  gloom 

Still  speaks  in  tones  of  thunder. 

in. 

Then  the  craven  fled,  and  the  timid  wept, 
And  prayers  to  heaven  were  given, 

As  the  foaming  waters  round  them  closed, 
And  the  iron  ribs  were  riven. 


THE   HERO   OF   THE   ARCTIC. 

But  lo !  the  dun  clouds  glow  and  glare — 

The  masts  are  wildly  reeling, 
The  signal  blaze  the  calm  pale  form 

Of  the  hero  boy  revealing. 

IV. 

Slow  sinks  the  gallant  ship ;  the  sea 

Her  green  waves  o'er  her  meeting ; 
And  the  hearts  that  thrilled  to  love  and  fear 

Forgot  the  woe  of  beating. 
But  hark !  the  signal  gun  once  more ! — 

And  the  clouds  repeat  the  story — 
Brave  boy !  that  halo  light  to  death 

Was  thy  halo  light  to  glory. 


WHY    MOURN,    O   FRIEND? 

II V  mourn,  O  friend,  or  grief-grown  fillets  wear? 

Since  those  we  love  have  fallen  by  the  way, 
For  them  no  more  life's  weary  round  of  care, 

Its  nights  of  sorrow,  or  its  strifes  by  day. 


The  morn  saw  one  depart,  and  one  the  eve, 

But  ere  they  faded  from  our  sorrowing  view, 
Saw  ye  not  from  their  eyes  death's  shadow  leave, 
And  Beulah's  nightless  glories  beaming  through. 


TAR  of  the  evening. 
Glory  on  high, 
Queen  of  the  beautiful 

Gem  of  the  sky, 
Light  of  the  traveler 
Seeking  for  rest. 
Ever  thus  peacefully 

Look  from  the  west. 


Eyes  that  are  watching 

Gaze  upon  the 
Eyes  that  are  weary 

Waiting  for  me  ; 
Joy  of  the  wanderer. 

Evermore  shine, 
Smiling  I  gaze  on  thee— 

Smile  thou  on  mine. 


MAKE    IT   FOUR,   YER  HONOR. 

AS  ye  iver  in  coort  av  a  mornin' 

Whin  the  shiverin'  craythers  come 
Like  bastes,  from  their  iron  cages, 

To  be  tould  their  guilt  an'  doom? 
Some  av  thim  bould  an'  brazen, 
Some  av  thim  broke  wid  care, 
Some  av  them  wildly  wapin', 
Or  sullen  wid  black  despair. 

O  it's  a  sight  inthirely 

To  take  the  heart  away ! 
The  pitiful  little  childer, 

The  ould  ones  dirthy  an  grey — 
Crouchin'  along  the  binches, 

Tuckin'  their  rags  about 
To  hide  the  sorrow  that's  in  thim, 

And  kape  the  couldness  out. 

The  Joodge  sits  up  above  thim, 

The  coort' s  own  officers ; 
Polace  wid  their  long  shillalys, 

Nate  in  their  coats  and  stars ; 
Witnisses,  too,  a  plint}' ; 

Shysters  to  worry  an'  bite ; 
And  hangin'  about  the  railin' 

The  divil's  own  crew  for  fight. 


MAKE    IT    FOUR,    YER    HONOR. 

Nine  av  the  clock  is  sthrikiu' 

Whin  the  clerk  begins  to  rade, 
And  prisintly  his  Honer 

Says  to  the  coort  "Procade. " 
Thin  up  the}'  call  ould  Mary  ; 

An'  trimblin'  there  she  stands— 
The  combs  forgotten  that  smoothed  her  hair. 

And  the  soap  that  scoured  her  hands. 

Larry,  my  boy,  where  are  ye 

That  came  from  ould  Gahvay, 
An'  brought  in  yer  arms  a  darlin', 

The  swatest  that  crossed  the  say? 
There  wasn't  the  likes  for  beauty 

By  silver  Shannon  set 
Since  the  sun  first  shone  in  heaven, 

And  the  grass  wid  dew  was  wet. 

Could  ye  see  her  now,  all  faded, 

In  her  rags,  an'  sin,  an'  shame, 
Your  heart  it  would  break  wid  sorrow 

For  the  girl  that  bore  your  name: 
Yer  heart  it  would  break  for  thinkin' 

Av  the  proud  day  ye  was  wed — 
Ah  !  better  the  silence  av  the  grave, 

And  the  darkness  av  the  dead 

Thin  up  spakes  the  Joodge,  an'  says  he, 

"Man-,  j-e've  been  here 
How  many  times,  can  ye  tell  me, 

Since  it  was  the  last  New  Year? 
Ye' re  scarcely  quit  av  the  prisin, 

And  here  ye  are  to-day 
For  sthalin',  says  the  witness: 

Now  what  have  ve  to  sav?" 


MAKE  IT  FOUR,  YKR  HONOR.  7 1 

Sliakin'  her  grey  hairs  backward 

Out  of  her  eyes  and  face : 
"It's  thrue  that  ye  say,  yer  Honer. 

It's  thrue  is  my  disgrace. 
It  wasn't  the  coat  I  cared  for ; 

It's  stharviii  I  was  to  ate, 
And  I  want  a  friendly  shilter 

Out  av  a  friendless  sthrate. 

"Sind  me  back  to  the  prism, 

For  the  winter  it  is  could, 
An'  there  isn't  a  heart  that's  warniin' 

For  the  likes  av  me  that's  ould ; 
There  isn't  a  heart  that's  warniin', 

Nor  a  hand  that  takes  me  in — 
If  I  sthale  to  kape  from  stharvin' 

May  God  forgive  the  sin  ! ' ' 

Then  kindly  spakes  his  Honer : 

"Well,  Mary,  will  it  do 
If  I  sind  ye  to  the  prisin 

For  jist  a  month  or  two?" 
"The  prisin's  a  friend,"  says  Mary; 

"I  fear  the  winter  more — 
An  it's  all  the  same,  yer  Honer, 

Ye' 11  plaze  to  make  it  four." 


THE   BROWN   CHICKADEE. 

A  FABLE. 

JN  the  top  of  an  oak  sat  a  brown  chickadee  ; 

It  seemed  but  a  speck  for  the  height  of  the  tree ; 

And  it  chirruped  and  twittered,  till  straightway  it  saw 
Through  the  green  leaves  the  forms  of  a  dove  and  a  daw. 
Then  it  fluttered  its  wings,  and  it  puffed  out  its  breast, 
And  the  feathers  stood  up  from  its  tail  to  its  crest — 
"The  impertinent  jades !"  in  its  anger  it  cried, 
"Do  they  think  that  with  them  this  fine  tree  I'll  divide? 
They  shall  see  I  know  how  to  resent,  though  I'm  small, 
And  a  tree  good  for  one  will  not  do  for  us  all." 
So  he  hopped  from  his  perch,  did  the  brown  chickadee, 
And  left  them  alone  on  a  limb  of  the  tree — 
All  unconscious  the  dove,  and  my  story  grows  sad, 
For  the  daw  never  dreamed  that  the  titmouse  was  mad  ! 

MORAL. 

If  angered  by  what  others  do,  and  would  show  it, 
Be  sure  that  you  act  so  the  others  will  know  it. 


THE   TWO    MARINERS. 


OLUMBUS  gave  a  world  to  light; 
Found  tropic  isles  in  tropic  seas, 
Where  spicewinds,  wafting  melodies 
From  gorgeous  groves  of  orange  trees, 

Thrilled  the  pleased  senses  with  delight. 


Nor  sooner  he  these  prizes  gains 

Than  ingrates  send  him  back  in  chains. 

In  thee,  sweet  one,  my  venturous  heart — 
A  mariner  o'er  untried  seas — 
Found  isles  of  calm  and  joy  and  ease, 
More  glorious  than  the  Cyclades — 

New  words  in  which  it  claimed  a  part ; 

Yet  thence,  where  such  enchantment  reigns, 

Thou'st  sent  the  wanderer  back  in  chains. 


THE   EMIGRANT'S   INVITATION. 

ILL  you  come  to  the  land  where  the  song  of  the  lark 
Is   heard   in  the  woodland  from  morning  till  dark ; 
Where  the  violets  open  their  tender  blue  eyes 
To  the  zephyrs  of  spring  and  the  warmth  of  the  skies  ; 
Where  the  prairies  are  laden  with  honey-lipped  flowers, 
More  fragrant  than  blossom  in  Ottoman  bowers? 

Will  you  come  to  that  Land  ? 

Then  with  me,  love,  away,  like  a  bird  to  its  nest, 
To  the  empire  of  freedom,  the  West,  ho !  the  West ! 

There  the  hunter  his  carol  awakens  at  dawn, 

And  the  blast  of  his  bugle  arouses  the  fawn, 

While  the  clattering  hoof,  and  the  echoing  gun, 

Announce  to  his  comrades,  the  chase  is  begun  ! 

Ho!  to  sweep  like  the  wild  horse  the  dew-beaded  plain, 

With  a  heart  like  your  swift  steed,  uncurbed  by  a  rein. 

Will  you  come  to  that  Land ! 

Then  with  me,  love,  away,  like  a  bird  to  its  nest, 
To  the  home  of  the  free  in  the  West,  ho  !  the  West ! 

'Tis  a  land  of  broad  empires,  whose  bounds  shall  enfold 
Full  seedtimes  of  promise,  rich  harvests  of  gold, 
Where  from  valley  to  mountain,  from  river  to  sea, 
Shall  ascend  the  hosannas,  the  songs  of  the  free ; 
Where  the  exiles  of  nations,  the  children  of  toil, 
Shall  be  lords  of  themselves  and  the  kings  of  the  soil  ! 

Will  you  come  to  that  Land? 

Then  away,  love,  away,  where  the  sun  sinks  to  rest, 
O'er  the  empire  of  freemen,  the  West,  ho !  the  West  ! 


FROM   THEIR   SERENE    ABODES. 


ROM  their  serene  abodes  how  calm  and  still 
The  everlasting  stars  look  down, 

So  shone  they  on  Judea's  sacred  hill 
Ere  Israel's  royal  minstrel  wore  the  crown. 


There  flames  Arcturus,  and  Orion  there 

And  Ariadne  on  her  milky  throne 
As  when  from  Belas'  height  the  Coptic  seer 

Proclaimed  thy  destiny,  O  Babylon ! 

Through  the  gigantic  ages,  as  with  spears 

Tipt  with  quick  beams  of  unextinguished  light, 

Far  reaching  they,  through  all  the  circling  years 
Have  smote  the  mantle  of  chaotic  night. 

The  wise,  the  good,  the  manly  and  the  fair — 
Youth  fresh  in  life,  and  age  its  vigor  o'er — 

Have  gazed  upon  thee  shining  ever  there — 
Have  gazed  and  vanished,  to  return  no  more. 

Each  with  his  little  world  of  hope  and  fears, 
His  dear  ambitions  and  his  favorite  schemes, 

Hath  wrought  expectant  through  the  round  of  years, 
And  passed  to  rest  within  the  land  of  dreams. 

A  gentle  slumber  falling  like  the  air. 
When  twilight  shades  the  dewy  valleys  keep, 

Hath  passed  on  all,  and  sweetly  wooed  from  care, 
To  lap  the  weary  in  the  arms  of  sleep. 


FROM   THEIR   SERENE   ABODES. 

There  in  the  vale,  or  yonder  on  the  plain, 
They  laid  aside  their  cares  o'er  those  to  weep 

Who,  gone  before,  had  rent  time's  veil  in  twain, 
Then  all  their  woes  forgot,  themselves  to  sleep. 

So  pilgrims  struggling  o'er  some  storm-vexed  height 
To  sunny  vales  their  heavy  steps  incline, 

Pause  at  the  base,  where  slumbrous  airs  invite, 
Fold  their  tired  arms,  and  all  their  toils  resign. 


THE   MORNING    PRAYER. 


HESE  rusty  steel  spectacles — there  is  the  case — 
Bring  back  to  my  mind  a  much  faded  old  face, 
And. the  Elder  once  more,  seated  sol emnly  there, 
Makes  ready  to  sanctify  breakfast  with  prayer. 


How  fresh  is  the  landscape,  how  cool  and  how  still, 
With  shade  in  the  valley  and  sun  on  the  hill, 
The  cattle  in  pasture,  the  sheep  near  the  fold, 
And  meadows  with  buttercups  blazing  like  gold. 

Through  the  rose-latticed  window  that  looks  to  the  east, 
The  sunbeams  dance  brightly  like  lambs  at  a  feast, 
And  flash  from  old  pewters  that  came  o'er  the  sea, 
Ere  Boston  rose  up  against  tyrants  and  tea. 

What  fragrance  the  glowing  tin  coffee-pot  spreads, 
As  it  simmers  and  sings  to  us  snug  in  our  beds, 
While  the  boiling  potatoes  bump  round  in  the  pot, 
And  the  pan  of  brown  biscuits  stands  ready  and  hot. 

There's  Tab  on  the  hearth  rug,  and  Tray  at  the  door, 
Keeping  watch  lest  the  chickens  come  tracking  the  floor, 
While  Aunty  the  anxious,  makes  vocal  the  air, 
To  hasten  us  children  to  breakfast  and  prayer. 

Dear  Aunt !  can  I  ever  forget  that  rare  shelf 
With  its  candlesticks,  snuffers,  blue  china  and  delf, 
Dried  peppermint,  saffron,  sage,  senna  and  squills, 
All  ready  to  conquer  colds,  colics  and  chills ! 


78  THE   MORNING    PRAYER. 

No  wonder  thy  kind  face  grew  withered  and  thin 
Thinking  how  we  might  perish  in  childhood  and  sin, 
For  there  stood  the  apple-tree  close  by  the  wall 
To  tempt  us  like  Adam  to  eat  and  to  fall. 

At  last  we  are  ready  ;  two  chubby-cheeked  boys 
Most  happy  when  raising  a  whirlwind  of  noise ; 
Two  girls  in  whose  eyes  is  the  glow  of  the  sun 
As  they  brighten  with  laughter  and  sparkle  with  fun. 

Now  seated  and  still  on  our  chip-bottomed  chairs, 
The  Elder  invites  us  to  join  him  in  prayers, 
And  reading  a  portion  of  Scripture,  we  kneel, 
While  he  pours  out  his  soul  in  a  fervent  appeal. 

Then  up  we  glance  softlj",  two  boys  russet  brown, 
And  sisters  as  fair  as  a  peach  in  its  down, 
With  a  grace  like  a  saint's  in  its  sweetest  repose 
With  dimples  as  deep  as  the  heart  of  a  rose. 


PHILO   IS   DEAD. 

HILO  is  dead !    the  gay,  the  gentle  bo}- — 

The  valley's  glory — Philo  is  no  more. 

Of  limb  elastic  as  the  tempered  bow, 

He  bounded  o'er  the  hills,  when  first  the  sun 

Shot  crimson  arrows  up  the  flecking  east : 


From  sweetly  clovered  steeps,  kissed  by  first  dews, 
He  called  up  airiest  echoes  from  dusk  vales, 
Where  yet  the  sturdy  ox  and  lactant  kine 
Herded  and  dozed  beside  the  gnarled  oaks. 
Those  hills  shall  see  him  never,  never  more  ; 
The  cliffs  that  answered  to  his  merry  call 
Bare  their  brown  fronts  in  silence  to  the  winds 
That  round  them  grieve  and  whisper  sighing  low. 

Spring  brings  return  of  beauty ;  to  the  woods 

Buds,  leaves,  and  lichens  tender ;  to  the  vale 

Flowers,  wandering  vines,  and  verdure  thickly  strewn, 

To  the  brier  the  rose,  and  to  the  thorn  the  flower; 

To  earth  in  all  her  recesses  of  light  and  shade, 

The  joy  of  sunshine  and  the  mellow  rain. 

But  not  to  me  can  she  restore  the  joy 

That  with  her  presence  faded  :  on  his  brow 

Shone  like  a  star  the  effluence  of  life 

That  made  more  radiant  than  the  sun,  than  birds 

More  musical,  than  flowers  more  fair, 

The  wintriest  gloom,  or  day  tempestuous. 

Listless  I  wander  through  the  paths  he  trod  : 

There  is  the  mossy  knoll  that  oft  received 

The  precious  burden  ;  there  the  tree  he  nursed, 

Yonder  the  rose  he  tended,  and  its  buds  plucked  off 

In  playful  mood,  so  daintily  to  tip 

The  dancing  tendrils  of  his  golden  hair. 


8o  PHILO    IS    DEAD. 

Wrap  me,  O  memory,  in  dreams ;  dissolve 

In  visions  all  that  lies  so  dark  between 

The  idle  present  and  the  happy  past. 

Feed  me  of  old  delights,  O,  fancy !  fill 

Each  avenue  of  sense  with  nectared  bliss 

That  time  has  hoarded  from  my  heart  bereft, 

And  like  the  witch  of  Endor,  call  thou  up 

Him  round  whose  brow  the  rainbow  of  my  hope 

O'erarched  the  coming  years  so  radiantly. 

I  watch — I  call — "Philo!"  the  bosky  dells 

Echo  and  oft  repeat  the  name — the  hills 

In  lingering  sweetness  answer  and  reply. 

Alas!  he  comes  not.     "Wherefore  thus  deceive 

Thy  heart,"  says  Reason,   "only  to  make  sharp 

The  cruel  griefs  that  sting  afresh  thy  love?" 

Will  he  not  answer  then?  shall  I  no  more 

In  shady  nooks  and  sunmr  dells  espy 

The  vision  of  his  beauty  ?     Here  oft  his  feet, 

White  as  the  lilies  in  the  dimpled  lake, 

Shook  from  the  bells  of  golden  throated  flowers, 

The  purest  pearls  that  ever  night  fa}'s  dropt 

From  tinted  shells  in  aromatic  cups, 

Or  like  an  alabaster  peeped  from  out 

The  fresh  green  grass  and  pensive  violet. 

Ah !  when  the  spring  shall  blush  in  all  the  vales 

And  dandelions  star  the  hills  with  gold ; 

When  in  the  coverts  and  the  budding  dells, 

The  fiery  wild  rose  and  the  star  flower  blue, 

The  fragrant  pea  and  crocus  laid  with  gold, 

Shall  blossom  and  grow  pale,  he  will  return 

In  all  the  years  no  more.     Philo  is  dead ! 

O,  mourn,  deserted  hills,  mourn  Philo  dead! 

O,  mourn,  untrodden  paths,  mourn  Philo  dead! 

O,  mourn,  unvocal  vales,  mourn  Philo  dead ! 


HER   RECORD. 

OW  she  is  gone,  most  gentle  of  her  kind, 

The  lesson  of  her  life  who  reads,  may  still 
Learn  of  the  triumphs  of  th'  impelling  will, 
The  victories  of  the  unconquerable  mind 
Over  the  weakness  of  much  human  ill. 


For  so  it  was,  though  fragile  as  a  flower, 

You  might  discern  the  unbaffled  spirit's  power, 
Warding  the  blows  that  lesser  natures  kill. 

The  days  she  numbered  by  the  deeds  each  hour 
Completed  saw  ;  and  through  her  busy  hands 
There  slept  no  atom  of  time's  sliding  sands 

Unused.     Wife,  mother,  friend !  thro'  sun  and  shower, 
She  plucked  from  many  hearts  the  thorns  of  care, 
And  left  the  rose  of  peace  to  blossom  there. 


SLEIGH-RIDE   SONG. 


ho!  away  we  go, 
Over  the  fields  of  frozen  snow, 
Lightly  we  laugh,  and  lightly  we  sing, 
For  Winter  is  jolly,  and  Winter  is  king. 
Then  ho,  ho,  ho  !  then  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Leave  sober  faces  to  churls,  heigh,  ho  ! 
Was  ever  delight 
Like  a  frosty  night, 
And  a  sleigh  full  of  laughing  girls,  heigh  ho  ! 

Merrily  ho  !  how  fleet  we  go, 

Swift  as  the  reindeer  over  the  snow, 

Jingling  bells  may  tinkle  and  ring, 

For  somebody's  jolly,  and  somebody'll  sing, 

Then  ho,  ho,  ho  !  then  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Leave  sober  faces  to  churls,  heigh,  ho  ! 

There's  no  delight 

Like  a  frosty  night, 
And  a  sleigh  full  of  laughing  girls,  heigh,  ho  ! 


WAITING. 


"And  the  grasshopper  shall  he  a  burden,  and  desire 
shall  fail  :  because  man  goeth  to  his  long  home." 


EATH  is  better  than  life, 
And  sleep  is  sweeter  than  waking. 

Sweeter  is  sleep  than  conscious 

Linking  of  sorrow  to  sorrow, 
Leaness  of  spirit  to  body, 
The  frame  thereof  sorely  shaking, 

Smitten  by  pain  to-day 

And  shattered  by  grief  to-morrow. 

Of  this  alone  are  we  certain  : 
The  shroud  is  woven  to  wind  us, 

The  mattock  and  worm  are  eager, 
The  hearse  and  the  mourners  waiting, 
Matters  it,  then,  what  time 
We  go  to  the  houses  assigned  us? 
Let  us  be  ready  to  face 
Our  fate  without  hesitating. 


WAITING. 

We  might  endure  did  we  know 
There  were  anything  lasting  or  real 
In  love  or  pleasure  or  fame, 
In  fortune,  dominion  or  glory ; 
The}r  are  but  shadows  of  shadows, 
The  shapes  of  a  splendid  ideal, 

That  shine  in  the  light  of  romance, 
And  live  in  the  pages  of  story. 

Death  is  better  than  life, 
And  sweeter  is  rest  than  sighing. 
Sweeter  is  rest  than  care 
And  getting  of  gold  with  sorrow, 
And  wisdom  that  seemeth  folly, 
With  death  from  the  house-top  crying, 
"That  which  is  thine  to-day 
Mine  shall  it  be  to-morrow." 

Vex  not  our  ears  with  babble 

Of  increase  of  years  and  of  riches, 

Corn  and  oil  for  plenty, 

And  wine  for  gladness  red, 
Fruits  and  the  fatness  of  seasons : 
A  voice  from  the  darkness  preaches, 

"These  are  for  the  living, 

But  ye  are  for  the  dead." 

Vex  not  our  thoughts  with  delights 
Of  treasure  of  gold  and  fair  raiment, 
Lights  like  the  light  of  the  sun, 
In  houses  of  dancers  and  singers, 
Where  love  unto  love  makes  answer, 
And  heart  unto  heart  makes  payment, 
Coinage  of  rose-red  kisses 
And  toyings  of  passionate  fingers. 


WAITING.  85 

Death  is  better  than  life, 

And  sweeter  is  peace  than  striving. 

Sweeter  the  valley  in  shadow 

Than  wind-blown  hills  in  splendor. 
We  are  weary  of  labor, 
Weary  of  long  contriving, 

The  flesh  faints  under  its  burdens, 

The  soul  cries  out,  surrender. 

Into  our  hearts  there  enter 
Neither  the  lights  of  morning, 

Neither  glad  voices  of  spring  time, 

Neither  the  heats  of  summer ; 
Only  the  shadows  of  evening, 
Only  sad  voices  of  warning, 

Only  the  frosts  of  winter, 

That  make  numb  senses  num'er. 

Out  of  our  lives  are  taken 
Hopes  of  impossible  things  : 

The  noise  of  the  praise  of  the  people 

And  triumphs  for  deeds  that  are  done ; 
Wealth  of  the  fields  and  the  rivers 
Wrought  in  the  splendor  of  kings, 

And  a  name  of  all  names  to  be  spoken 

In  lands  of  the  snow  and  the  sun. 

Death  is  better  than  life, 

The  reaping  of  grain  than  the  sowing. 

Sweeter  the  folding  of  hands 

Than  strength  and  the  labor  before  us. 
Why  should  we  toil  as  one 
For  whom  fresh  seasons  are  blowing, 

When  the  sands  slip  under  our  feet 

And  the  heavens  darken  o'er  us  ? 


S6 


One  there  is  who  builds, 

And  his  building  is  not  shaken, 
Neither  by  roar  of  tempests, 
Nor  roll  of  the  thunder  of  drums ; 

Only  the  trumpet  of  God 

The  dwellers  therein  shall  waken, 

When  the  wrath  of  His  wrath  is  kindled 
And  the  day  of  His  judgment  comes. 

With  the  peace  that  is  before 
And  the  pain  that  is  behind  us, 

Knowing  the  folly  of  living, 

The  sorrow  that  comes  of  waiting, 
It  can  not  matter  how  soon 
We  go  to  the  houses  assigned  us, 

For  we  are  ready  to  face 

Our  fate  without  hesitating. 


-TK^n  -^s» 

v-     I 


IN  REMEMBRANCE. 

J.    P.,    FEB.    II,    1878. 

F  only  she  were  here,  who  knew 
The  secret  paths  of  fields  and  woods, 
And  where  the  earliest  wild  flowers  through 
Cool  mosses  push  their  dainty  hoods ; 
Whose  voice  was  like  a  mother's  call 

To  them,  and  bade  them  wake  and  rise, 
And  mark  the  morning's  splendors  fall 
In  mists  of  pearl  from  tender  skies :  — 

If  only  she  were  here,  to  see 

The  landscape  freshening  hour  by  hour, 
And  watch  in  favorite  plant  and  tree 

The  bud  unfold  in  leaf  and  flower ; 
To  welcome  back  from  sunny  lands 

The  bluebirds  that  have  tarried  long, 
Or  feed  with  her  own  loving  hands 

The  bright,  red-breasted  prince  of  song :  — 


88  IN    REMEMBRANCE. 

If,  brightening  down  th'  accustomed  walk, 

She  came  to  welcome  friend  and  guest, 
To  share  our  light,  unstudied  talk, 

And  sparkle  at  the  rising  jest ; 
Or,  leading  on  to  nobler  themes, 

In  art  and  science  play  the  sage, 
And  rapt,  as  in  prophetic  dreams, 

Foretell  the  wonders  of  the  age :  — 

Could  she  return,  as  now  the  spring 

Returns  in  robes  of  green  and  gold, 
When  love  and  song  are  on  the  wing, 

And  hearts  forget  that  they  are  old — 
How  bright  were  all  the  days !  how  fair 

This  miracle  of  life  would  be ! 
Whose  pulsings  thrill  the  glowing  air 

And  quicken  over  land  and  sea. 

And  shall  we  doubt  thy  presence  here, 

Spirit  of  light,  because  our  eyes, 
Veiled  in  this  earthly  atmosphere, 

See  not  the  heaven  that  near  us  lies? 
More  living  thou  than  we,  who  stand 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  years, 
Whose  glimpses  of  a  better  land 

Are  caught  through  eyelids  wet  with  tears 

And  so  in  hope  we  wait,  and  see 

The  springs  return  and  summers  go 
That  bring  us  nearer  unto  thee, 

Who  art  beside  us,  since  we  know 
Whatever  range  thy  flight  may  take, 

Its  steps  thou  surely  wilt  retrace — 
Love  binds  with  cords  death  can  not  break, 

And  draws  thee  from  the  realms  of  space ! 


SP1RITUS   SYLVAE. 


Immortalia  ne  speres,  monet  anims,  et  almuni 
Quae  rapit  hora  diem. — Horace. 

Nature  finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good   in  every  thing.  —  Shaks. 


are  invisible  spirits  in  the  air! 
They  walk  the  earth  with  us,  and  minister. 
In  our  communion  with  the  visible, 
To  our  immortal  utterance.     In  the  mute, 
Impressive  language  of  the  natural  world — 
In  flower  and  leaf,  and  in  the  flow  of  streams. 

In  the  deep  shadows  of  primeval  groves, 

In  the  eternal  silence  of  the  hills, 

Tn  change  of  seasons,  and  the  flight  of  j-ears. 

They  speak  in  eloquence  to  our  inner  sense 

Of  a  m}'steriotis  Destiny,  that  rules. 

Directs,  decrees  and  stamps  material  forms, 

And  grosser  being  with  the  seal  of  death  ; 

Yet,  out  of  desolation  shadows  forth 

The  glorious  meaning  of  that  principle. 

Which  gives  to  life  desire,  and  longing  thought. 

Prayer,  faith  and  hope — OUR  IMMORTALITY  ! 


90  SP1RITUS   SYLVAE. 

Ill  these  lone  paths,  eternal  twilight  round  us, 

Oh,  thou,  beginner  of  existence ;  thou, 

Whose  bosom  with  the  restless  ardor  glows 

Of  untried  expectation ;  thou,  whose  life 

Hath  mournful  garb  upon  it,  and  whose  heart, 

Grown  weary  of  its  burden,  for  support 

Leans  on  the  staff  of  Faith — companion,  friend, 

Youth,  manhood,  and  e'en  thou,  whose  foot-falls  reach 

The  very  threshold  of  Eternity — 

Together  let  us  walk,  together  talk, 

And  'neath  the  solemn  arches  of  these  boughs, 

That  twine,  like  friendship,  in  each  other's  arms, 

List  to  the  teachings  of  the  friendly  voice 

Of  the  pervading  Influence,  that  doth  dwell 

Near  these  dark  rocks,  by  yonder  babbling  stream, 

And  in  th'  uncertain  recesses  beyond. 

How  silent,  how  profound !  hush'd — solemn — dim. 

Except  the  whispering  of  a  million  leaves 

Stirred  by  the  wandering  winds,  or  distant  dash 

Of  rock-born  fountains  ;  or,  less  audible, 

The  rustling  of  sere  leaves,  that,  from  the  boughs 

Slowly  descending,  heap  the  yellow  earth, 

All  else  is  still.     Like  stoic  sentinels, 

Moss-trunk' d  and  sinewy-limb'd,  gnarl'd,  rough  and  crook 'd, 

Spreading  their  century's  growth  to  the  blue  heaven, 

Guarding  this  solemn  place,  the  old  oaks  stand. 

Yonder  the  delicate  aspen,  quivering  leaved  ; 

The  generous-bearing  walnut,  and  the  beech  ; 

The  ruby -beaded  thorn,  and  sturdy  pine, 

Green  as  affection,  and  as  love  enduring, 

Weave,  with  out-spreading  boughs    a  sacred  shade. 

Stay  now ;  and  rest  thee  in  this  favorite  spot, 
Sequestered  from  the  gaze  of  man  ;  and  here, 
Beneath  the  awning  of  the  maple's  boughs, 


SPIKITUS    SVLVAK.  93 

On  this  cool  moss-bank,  which  o'erlooks  the  stream, 

Sit  thee  awhile,  and  drink  the  influence 

Of  lovely  Nature  in  her  lone  retreats. 

See,  through  the  net-work  of  white  clouds,  the  stars, 

The  pure  intelligence  of  Heaven,  look  down, 

And  guide  thy  thoughts  to  grandeur  :  Through  the  leaves 

The  night- winds  rustle,  with  a  sweet,  low  sound, 

Like  spirit-music,  such  as  we  have  heard 

When  silver-slippered  Fancy  tuned  her  harp 

To  aerial  numbers  in  the  Hall  of  Dreams, 

And  Love  and  Hope,  and  childhood's  blessing,  Joy, 

Danced  to  the  melody.     The  ferns  and  grass 

Bend  with  their  load  of  night  dew,  and  the  fount, 

That  ripples  at  our  feet,  tinkles  a  song 

L'pon  the  pebbles,  soft  as  the  far  chime 

Of  vesper  church-bells  trembling  in  the  air. 

Be  silent ;  for  the  Spirit  of  these  groves, 

The  solemn  teacher  of  our  natural  faith, 

Through  visible  symbols  to  thy  heart  doth  speak 

Of  life,  of  death  and  Immortality  : — 

"A  few  short  years,  and  thou,  and  thine,  and  all 

Who  claim  thy  recollection,  will  go  down, 

With  all  the  unremembered  of  the  past — 

King,  prince  and  peasant ;  noble,  good  and  vile ; 

The  servant  and  his  master  ;  serf  and  lord, 

Who  sleep  an  equal  slumber  in  the  grave — 

To  be  forgotten — to  a  silent  home ; 

A  realm  of  shades  uncertain,  and  a  night, 

Eternal  in  its  darkness,  where  the  form. 

The  palpable  essence  of  your  two-fold  life, 

In  still  corruption  shall  resolve  to  dust, 

And  give  to  Nature  what  it  gathered  thence. 

There,  neither  joy,  nor  the  tumultuous  bliss 

Of  o'erwrought  expectation  ;  nor  the  fear 


94  SPIKITUS    SYLVAE. 

Of  suffering  ;  nor  the  pang  of  pain  or  grief; 
Nor  disappointment's  bitterness  are  known. 
But  a  pervading  peace — a  sleep,  a  rest, 
Disturbed  by  nothing — quietude  unbroken. 
"To  thee,  the  generations  yet  unborn, 
The  busy  world,  and  all  who  do  inherit 
Or  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  shall  surely  move. 
Silent  as  shades  that  mingle  with  the  night, 
And  enter  with  thee  the  abode  of  rest. 
The  records  of  the  past,  the  lore  of  mind, 
Distinction,  grade,  the  monuments  of  art. 
The  wealth,  the  power,  the  drama  of  a  world, 
Shall  be  enveloped  in  that  night  of  sleep. 
Ay,  all  that  was  of  matter,  or  shall  be, 
All  the  material  universe,  the  form, 
The  substance  of  all  being  shall  be  lost — 
Without  a  trace  of  likeness  passed  awa}-, 
Like  sunbeams  on  the  waste  of  Ocean's  waves, 
Lost  in  infinhy  of  gloom.     O  night ! 
Unending,  joyless,  dreamless  night  of  Peace ! 

"  Life  hath  a  two-fold  form — that  which  connects 

Material  essence  with  immortal  part, 

And  that  of  spirit  onl}r ;  but  the  first, 

As  doth  the  natural  world,  grows  to  decay. 

The  bud  of  being  in  its  germ  contains 

The  elements  of  its  destruction  ; 

And  all  who  breathe,  with  the  first  breath  the}-  draw. 

Inhale  a  poison  which  makes  death  their  doom. 

Yet  fear  thou  not  the  sure  approach  of  death  ; 

It  is  no  '  King  of  Terrors ;  '  fear  thou  not. 

Death  hath  no  shape ;  it  is  a  formless  thing ; 

The  absence  of  the  principle  of  life: 

A  blank,  a  void,  which  thought  can  not  conceive. 

It  ends  the  mystery  of  life,  and  solves 


SPIRITUS    SYLVAE.  95 

The  problem  of  existence.     It  is  you 

Who  clothe  it  with  unsightly  forms  and  shapes, 

And  in  imagination  give  a  birth 

To  such  creations  as  are  bred  in  fear, 

And  nourished  in  the  reveries  of  gloom. 

"Behold!  the  hand  of  Destiny  is  here  ! 

Yon  mighty  oak,  Methuselah  in  years,  . 

Torn  by  the  fury  of  the  elements, 

The  victim  of  a  thousand  unseen  foes, 

A  fallen  monarch,  rotteth  back  to  dust, 

Its  strong  heart  yielding  to  a  slow  decay. 

The  million  leaves  that  yester-morn  were  green, 

Rejoicing  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze, 

Beneath  thy  feet,  like  hopes  in  manhood,  lie, 

Scattered  and  withered,  sere  and  desolate. 

The  flowers  that  blossomed  by  yon  babbling  brook, 

That  blushed  in  fragrance  to  the  blue  of  Heaven, 

And  made  delightful  all  the  odorous  air, 

Faded  and  hurried  to  the  dust  of  earth  ; 

But  from  their  stems  the  germs  of  life  dropped  down, 

Which,  when  the  spring  her  vesture  shall  put  on, 

And  the  life-giving  Monarch  of  the  skies  return, 

To  heat  with  ardent  breath  the  senseless  mold, 

Shall  spring  to  being ;  bud,  unfold  and  fade, 

Yet  reproduce  their  likeness,  year  by  year. 

"This  Destiny,  death's  master,  fear  thou  not; 

For  thou,  Oh,  man,  within  thy  clayey  vestment, 

Hast  a  perennial  germ,  which,  when  the  robe 

Is  lain  aside — when,  with  material  forms 

It  sleeps  forever — when,  with  the  passing  .show, 

The  trappings  and  appendages  which  deck 

The  visible  and  unsubstantial  lost. 

In  the  obscurity  of  common  dust — 

SHALL  BURST  AT  ONCE  INTO  IMMORTAL  BLOOM." 


BEREAVED. 

IE  walks  the  earth  with  downcast  eyes, 
In  which  are  sorrow  and  the  pain 
That  softens  in  heart-easing  rain. 


The  tumult  of  the  busy  world, 
Its  noisy  strife  and  toil,  he  hears  ; 
It  falls  upon  unheeding  ears. 

For  what  to  him  are  greed  and  gain 
Who,  mourning  like  the  woodland  dove, 
Broods  o'er  the  vacant  nest  of  love? 


THERE    COMES   A   TIME. 

(HERE  comes  a  time  when  we  grow  old, 

And  like  a  sunset  down  the  sea 
|  Slope  gradual,  and  the  night-winds  cold 
Come  whispering  sad  and  chillingly  ; 
And  locks  are  gray 
As  winter's  day, 
And  eyes  of  saddest  blue  behold 
The  leaves  all  weary  drift  away, 
And  lips  of  faded  coral  say, 
There  conies  a  time  when  we  grow  old. 

There  conies  a  time  when  joyous  hearts, 

Which  leaped  as  leaps  the  laughing  main, 
Are  dead  to  all  save  "memory, 

As  prisoner  in  his  dungeon  chain  ; 
And  dawn  of  day, 
Hath  passed  away, 
The  moon  hath  into  darkness  rolled, 

And,  by  the  embers  wan  and  gray, 

I  hear  a  voice,  in  whispers  say, 
There  comes  a  time  when  we  grow  old. 

There  comes  a  time  when  manhood's  prime 

Is  shrouded  in  the  mist  of  years, 
And  beauty,  fading  like  a  dream, 
Hath  passed  away  in  silent  tears ; 
And  then  how  dark  ! 
But  oh  !  the  spark 


98  THERE   COMES   A   TIME. 

That  kindled  youth  to  hues  of  gold, 
Still  burns  with  clear  and  steady  ray, 
And  fond  affections  lingering,  say  — 

There  comes  a  time  when  we  grow  old. 

There  comes  a  time  when  laughing  Spring 

And  golden  Summer  cease  to  be, 
And  we  put  on  the  Autumn  robe, 
To  tread  the  last  declivity ; 
But  now  the  slope, 
With  rosy  Hope, 
Beyond  the  sunset  we  behold 
Another  dawn,  with  fairer  light, 
While  watchers  whisper  through  the  night- 
There  comes  a  time  when  we  grow  old. 


THE    RURAL   EDITOR. 

OME  thou,  who  taught' st  me  by  the  cooling  spring, 
'Mid  pleasant  airs  and  sylvan  shades  to  sing, 
Where  oft  my  youthful  footsteeps  idly  strayed. 
And  numbers  rude  to  ruder  songs  essayed. 
— Alas !  in  vain  I  call  upon  the  Muse, 


Entreat,  invoke — now  flatter,  now  abuse ; 

Like  Baal's  stupid  gods  who  wouldn't  "peep," 

The  ancient  virgin  must  be  fast  asleep. 

In  hopeful  mood  I  asked  her  to  inspire 

My  awkward  fingers  and  unsounded  lyre, 

And  loan  a  coal  from  her  celestial  fire. 

She  cut  me  short,  and  "Poetry,"  said  she, 

' '  Hath  its  own  pure,  peculiar  pedigree ; 

It  comes,  like  measles,  in  a  perfect  flood, 

And,  like  the  measles,  runs  in  certain  blood!" 

Thus  much  'tis  proper  I  should  here  confess, 
Nor  claim  a  talent  I  do  not  possess. 
You  do  not  look  for  snows  in  tropic  lands, 
Nor  flowers  nor  fruits  in  wastes  of  scorching  sands. 
Much  less  expect  poetic  thoughts  and  views 
From  one  by  you  anointed — not  the  Muse ; 
No  HARRIS  I,  who  sings  whate'er  he  feels, 
With  all  the  Muses  flocking  at  his  heels, 
Who  never  asks,  and  gets  uncertain  sums, 
Nor  churns  for  butter,  but  the  butter  comes ; 
No  DODGE,  to  improvise  for  you  a  song — 


100  THE   RURAL   EDITOR. 

He  finds  words  ready  as  he  goes  along, 
And  like  the  Pike's  Peak  miners — as  'tis  told — 
From  every  common  clod  kicks  out  the  gold. 
Yet,  since  the  task  is  mine  for  you  to  rhyme, 
This  first — I  trust  the  last  and  only  time — 
Like  Job,  who  sang  his  own  afflictions  best, 
And  found  experience  gave  uncommon  zest, 
Be  j-ou  indulgent,  dull  though  I  may  seem. 
And  be  the  RURAL  EDITOR  my  theme. 

Unhappy  wight !  illusion  fills  his  days 
Who  thinks  the  occupation  ever  pays : 
And  thrice  unhappj%  who,  in  quest  of  fame, 
From  "rags  and  lampblack"  thinks  to  earn  a  name. 
He  hopes,  perhaps,  illustrious  to  shine, 
A  meteor  in  the  editorial  line; 
New  themes  to  broach,  new  projects  to  advance, 
And  lead  the  startled  world  a  dizzy  dance ; 
Perchance  to  wake,  and  find  himself  mistaken, 

When    iinpropitious  hour  ! — he  sighs  to  see 
His  last  great  "  leader"  wrap  the  grocer's  bacon, 

Or  folded  round  his  favorite  Bohea. 
Fame !  if  he  seeks  it,  let  him  volunteer, 

Join  Brigham's  Saints,  or  Walker's  ragged  force, 

Or,  what  is  surer,  sue  for  a  divorce, 
And  run  the  gauntlet  of  a  gazetteer. 
He'd  stand  a  chance  at  least  of  notoriety, 
In  all  the  circles  of  our  best  society, 
Find  a  bad  life  served  up  quite  newspaporial. 
With  a  worse  picture,  in  the  next  pictorial. 

Once  on  a  time — so  run  all  tale  prefaces — 
(I  make  no  mention  here  of  dates  or  places.) 
I  knew  an  Editor — 'twas  long  ago, 
Before  the  art  was  bless'd  bv  steam  or  HOE, 


THE   RURAL   EDITOR.  1OI 

AVhen  printers  dined  on  unsubstantial  fare, 

And  nursed  their  hopes  on  whispers  from  the  air, 

Grew  rich  on  poverty,  and  stuff' d  their  clay 

On  airy  nothings — promises  to  pay. 

Well,  as  I  said,  I  knew  him — a  rare  fellow, 

Who  kept  his  own  and  other's  natures  mellow ; 

One  of  those  social  souls  we  all  enjoy, 

Who  hold  in  age  the  freshness  of  the  boy. 

His  bright  philosophy  could  brook  no  fears, 

For  he  was  cheerful  as  a  lad  at  taw, 
And  would  be,  though  the  world  were  drowned  in  tears ; 

(O'er  a  mint  julep)  happy  with  a  "straw." 
He  was  ambitious,  too — I  can't  say  wise, 
And  though  not  prudent,  full  of  enterprise ; 
For  'twas  no  show  of  wisdom,  you'll  confess, 
In  those  sad  days  to  calculate  success 
From  doubtful  profits  of  a  country  press. 
But  then  he  purchased  one,  with  type  and  cases, 
Some  ancient  racks  and  stands,  and  rules  and  chases, 
(They  were  all  second-hand,  'tis  well  to  mention, 
And  had  seen  service  worthy  of  a  pension,) 
And  with  this  outfit,  in  a  rural  town, 
To  life's  stern  toil  he  bravely  settled  down. 

Forth  came  his  paper,  neatly  launched  and  freighted, 
And  when  it  came,  the  village  was  elated ; 
Ignoring  party,  in  a  party  sense, 
Avoiding  all  that  might  excite  oflfen.se, 
It  praised  the  town,  its  prospects,  its  advances, 
Its  enterprise,  resources  and  finances ; 
It  praised  the  schools,  the  teachers  so  profound, 
Until  their  fame  was  known  for  miles  around : 
It  praised  the  village  parson's  eloquence. 
His  modest  bearing,  lack  of  all  pretense ; 
But  most  his  learning  and  his  solid  sense ; 


THE   RURAL    EDITOR. 

So  it  fell  out,  between  the  spring  and  fall, 
That  worth}'  from  the  city  had  a  call, 
With  such  an  offer  for  his  preached  word, 
That  he  felt  sure  that  call  was  from  the  Lord  ; 
It  praised  the  doctors  as  uncommon  skill'd, 

Adding  with  great  suaviter  and  grace, 
Their  treatment  cured  more  people  than  it  kill'd ; 
It  spoke  —  and  of  its  truth  some  doubts  will  spring  — 
Of  honest  lawyers  —  an  uncommon  thing  — 

Who  had  a  conscience — an  uncommon  case. 
In  short,  it  praised  so  well,  that  people  grew 
To  think  that  praise  was  merited  and  due; 
It  was  his  fault,  and  grew  from  an  excess 
Of  aim  to  please  and  profit  —  nothing  less; 
And  had  he  been  to  self  but  half  the  friend 
He  was  to  others,  he  had  met  an  end 
That  you  might  safely  aim  at  and  commend. 

His  influence  was  felt — the  town's  fair  fame, 
With  all  who  read  his  paper,  found  a  name ; 
The  city  pleasurists  resorted  there, 
Enjoyed  its  quiet  and  its  healthy  air; 
The  artists  came,  and  sketched  such  charming  scenes 
That  they  were  sought  to  grace  the  magazines ; 
And  thither  too,  came  men  of  enterprise — 
Blocks  rose  on  blocks,  and  mills  and  factories, 
Hotels  palatial,  and  stores  that  vied 
With  those  on  Broadway,  or  along  Cheapside. 
In  brief  the  town,  that  ere  the  printer  came, 
Had  scarce  "a  local  habitation  or  a  name," 
As  though  'twere  touched  by  magic,  grew  to  be 
An  inland  city— but  how  flourished  he? 


THE   RURAL   EDITOR. 


103 


Come  with  me,  up  three  flights  of  stairs,  and  there, 
In  dingy  daylight  and  lead-poisoned  air, 
Beside  his  desk  he  sits,  his  hair  has  grown 
Gray  with  the  flecks  that  time  and  care  have  sown ; 


Around  him  lie  exchanges,  scraps  and  clippings, 
Half  written  leaders,  locals,  puffs  and  sippings 
Of  Punch -y  humor;  manuscripts  rejected, 
From  geniuses  who  think  themselves  neglected; 
Obituary  verses,  full  of  gloom, 
And  doleful  voices  from  a  doleful  tomb; 
"Lines  to  a  Lady,"  from  a  Mister  Dash, 
Who's  desp'rately  in  love  with — his  moustache; 
A  sentimental  song  about  sea-shells, 

Writ  by  a  moping,  melancholy  she, 
Who  would  be  married,  though  her  face  yet  smells 

Of  bread-and-butter  and  the  nurserv; 


104  THE   RURAL  EDITOR. 

An  eulogy  on  General  Blank's  oration, 
Delivered  off-hand  at  the  late  ovation, 
And  which  suggests,  by  \vay  of  mere  reflection, 
He  should  be  honored  with  a  re-election; 
Modest  requests,  which  hope  he'll  not  refuse 
To  notice  this  or  that  in  next  week's  News; 
A  bunch  of  bad  segars,  that  some  one  sends, 

Expecting  thrice  their  value  in  a  local; 
Unopened  invitations  from  his  friends, 

Asking  his  presence  at  a  concert  vocal, 
Or  at  a  lecture,  party,  hop  or  ball, 
At  such  a  date  (please  mention)  and  such  hall; 
Novels  and  books  not  worth  a  decent  rating, 

Sent  out — they  send  few  others  but  for  cash— 
By  eastern  firms,  who  take  that  way  of  baiting, 

The  country  press  to  advertise  their  trash; 
In  short,  an  hundred  things  by  men  devised 
To  get  their  baubles  cheaply  advertised. 

There,  patient  toiler !  ever  at  his  work, 
Himself  his  foreman,  publisher  and  clerk, 
He  labored  hard — few  men  had  labored  harder — 
Grew  lean  in  person,  leaner  in  his  larder; 
And  still  he  toiled,  from  dawn  to  twilight  gray, 
The  first  of  men  to  court — the  last  to  pay ! 
Some  said  that  he  was  rich — it  might  be  true, 
Provided  that  you  reckoned  what  was  due; 
But  this  his  dearest  friends  both  said  and  knew— 
His  wants  were  many,  but  his  dimes  were  few. 
His  paper-bills  came  in,  which  must  be  paid, 
So,  to  delinquents  he  appealed  for  aid; 
He  would  take  pork,  potatoes,  corn  or  oats, 
Axe-helves  or  hoop-poles,  or,  at  worst,  their  notes; 
In  short,  take  anything  they  had  to  pay, 
Provided  it  was  brought  by  such  a  day. 


THE   RURAL   EDITOR.  105 

And  thus  lie  turned  short  corners,  always  pressed, 

A  sad  example  of  POPE'S  sagest  saw, 
"Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blessed," 

The  victim  of  a  fate  that  knows  no  law. 
Beset  by  butchers,  by  his  baker  teased, 
By  creditors  besieged,  by  bailiffs  squeezed, 
He  yielded  slowly,  in  the  desperate  strife, 
His  dingy  office  and  his  troubled  life, 
And  gave  to  quiet  earth  and  modest  stones 
His  many  virtues  and  his  aching  bones. 
Some  generous  friends  have  built  a  cenotaph 

Of  spotless  marble  o'er  the  sleeper's  dust, 
On  which  the  passer  reads  this  epitaph  : 

' '  HERE   LIES   A   MAN   WHO   DIED   OF  TOO   MUCH   TRUST  ! ' ' 


'Tis  a  plain  storj-,  rather  roughly  told, 
Of  one  who  trusted  others  and  was  "sold;" 
By  hope  allured,  in  turn  by  fear  assailed, 
He  gave  to  credit  all  he  had,  and  failed. 
The  moral  you  can  draw.     The  Country  Press 
Should  seek  for  independence — nothing  less. 
Ready  to  aid  the  good,  sustain  the  wise, 
Direct  and  counsel  proper  enterprise, 
Revealing  to  the  public  gaze  the  way 
Where  toil  may  profit,  and  where  skill  will  pay, 
Where  revenues  are  reaped  and  fortunes  grown, 
It  should  be  careful  to  preserve  its  own. 

The  Country  Press !  though  limited  its  sphere 
Of  influence,  demands  attention  here. 
Where  it  is  free,  the  people  will  be  free ; 

Where  it  is  pure,  the  people  will  be  pure ; 
Where  shines  its  light,  there  liberty  shall  be ; 

Where  it  stands  firm,  there  freedom  shall  endure. 


106  THE   RURAL   EDITOR. 

In  the  great  march  of  mind  it  leads  the  van, 
The  guard  of  public  right,  the  friend  of  man. 
Though  humble  toilers,  they  are  not  the  least 
Who  sow  the  seed  and  'garner  for  the  feast ; 
By  little  means  the  noblest  ends  are  gained, 
By  small  advances  victories  attained. 
Look  to  the  sea;  from  out  its  wastes  arise 
Fair  isles  of  beauty,  kissed  by  summer  skies. 
Mere  specks  at  first,  they  part  the  rippling  seas; 
Bald,  barren  rocks  then  rise  by  slow  degrees, 
And  here  extends  a  shoal,  and  there  an  arm, 
Here  swells  a  hill,  there  sinks  a  valley  warm  : 
Along  its  beach  clings  fast  the  floating  weed. 
And  spicy  winds  waft  down  the  feathery  seed ; 
To  ardent  suns  succeed  the  gentle  rains, 
Green  grow  the  hills  and  flowers  adorn  the  plains ; 
Fair  trees  spring  up  to  whisper  with  the  breeze, 
And  flashing  fountains  leap  to  join  the  seas. 
Where  birds  of  song  with  sweetest  music  come, 
And  build  their  nests  and  make  their  happy  home. 
And  there  it  stands !  a  glory  mid  the  isles, 
Where  spring  eternal  sheds  her  sweetest  smiles ; 
Through  centuries  its  builders  toiled  to  raise 
Another  Eden  in  the  later  days ; 
A  new  creation  under  heaven's  dome. 
Where  Love  might  dwell  and  Virtue  find  a  home. 
Their  toil  was  humble  'neath  a  surging  flood. 
Their  aim  was  noble  and  the  end  was  good. 

O,  humble  toilers !  ye  who  guide  the  press. 
Though  slow  the  progress,  sure  will  be  success. 
Patient  in  labor,  strong  in  hope  ;  in  faith 
Outreaching  time  and  circumstance  and  death; 
Be  yours  the  aim,  by  heaven  at  first  designed, 
To  raise  to  higher  range  of  thought  the  mind; 


THE   RURAL   EDITOR. 


I07 


Building  amid  the  floods  of  selfish  life, 

The  storms  of  passion  and  the  waves  of  strife, 

A  fairer  island  in  each  human  soul, 

Where  Love  shall  dwell  and  Virtue  have  control, 

An  Eden  blessed,  and  fairer  than  the  old, 

By  poets  sung,  by  prophet  lips  foretold, 

The  home  of  Innocence,  Religion's  shrine, 

Where  God  may  reign  and  Man  become  divine. 


IN    MEMORY. 

HE  robin  rests  its  northward  wing, 

And  twittering  in  the  quickened  tree, 
Pipes  all  its  sweetest  notes  for  me — 
The  merriest  prophet  of  the  spring. 

I  knew  that  it  would  come  once  more 

When  nights  grew  short  and  days  were  long 
To  wake  the  morning  with  its  song, 

And  feed  its  fledgelings  round  my  door. 


From  all  the  fields  the  snows  have  fled, 
And  thro'  the  grasses  gray  and  sere, 
Peeps  the  green  promise  of  the  year — 

The  hope  that  slumbered  with  the  dead. 

In  every  nook  the  crocus  springs — 
The  dandelions  star  the  hills. 
And  round  the  golden  daffodils 

I  hear  the  bee's  industrious  wings. 

O  soon  the  frolic  June  will  come 

And  shake  her  flaunting  roses  out. 
And  woods  be  gay  with  song  and  shout 

And  not  a  voice  on  earth  be  dumb. 

Alas  !  for  those  who  mourn  and  stand 
Like  watchers  by  a  raimr  sea, 
Who  wait  for  what  may  never  be, 

The  white  sails  striving  for  the  land. 


IN   MEMORY.  log 


Their  prayers  are  sighs,  their  vows  are  tears, 
For  sorrow  stayeth  all  the  night, 
And  sorrow  broodeth  in  the  light, 

And  casts  her  shadow  through  the  years. 


The  ash  leaf  reddens  to  its  fall, 

The  nights  are  long,  the  days  are  drear, 
And  hastening  to  its  end,  the  year 

With  frost}'  fingers  weaves  its  pall. 

When  like  a  youth  in  bloom  it  came, 
And  flaunted  all  its  garlands  out, 
And  woods  were  filled  with  song  and  shout 

And  thorns  wore  coronals  of  flame  — 

When  gladness  poured  like  crusted  wine 
From  June's  delicious  beaker,  then 
He  walked  among  the  sons  of  men, 

Dear  to  all  hearts,  but  most  to  thine. 


A   NEW   YEAR'S   RHYME. 

1864. 


live  and  love  and  laugh  and  weep  and  die  ; 

The  years  add  nothing  to  the  simple  story, 
And  what  conies  after?     Neither  you  nor  I, 

Who  stand  upon  time's  jutting  promontory 
And  seaward  gaze,  to  watch  life's  ships  go  by. 

Freighted  with  love,  hope,  hate,  joy,  grief  and  glory 
Can  say  what  shores  they  visit,  or  what  gales 
Blow  prosperous,  or  tear  their  shining  sails. 


For  none  return  of  all  that  pass  the  dim 
Horizon,  sinking  from  our  saddened  sight: 

We  hear  the  rippling  keel,  the  sailor's  hymn, 
Exchange  the  passing  hail,  the  fond  good  night. 

And  watch  till  in  the  di.stance  seems  to  swim 
The  signal  lamp  of  love  and  life  and  light — 

A  very  star  its  twinkling  radiance  glows. 

Then  vanishes — but  where?     No  mortal  knows. 


in. 


If  thus  the  bard  begins,  the  occasion  pricks  his 
Conscience  to  't.     Death  takes  a  thousand  guises  : 

Deceitful  fevers,  troublesome  asphyxies, 
Tormenting  pangs  and  horrible  surprises, 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  RHYME. 

And  shapes  more  hideous  still  in  savage  Dixie's 

Blood-sodden  fields,  where  many  a  soldier  lies,  his 
Head  blown  off  to  satisfy  war's  licenses 
In  one  of  our  most  famous  reconnoissances. 

IV. 

Dear  are  remembered  pleasures  : — dear  the  kiss 
That  modest  love  first  snatched  from  lips  untainted  ; 

Dear  boyhood's  homes  and  haunts ;  the  friends  we  miss, 
Whose  names  the  marble  bears,  whose  souls  are  sainted 

But  dearer  far  than  these,  than  all,  I  wis, 
That  rosy  fancy  e'er  illuminated, 

Are  thoughts  of  tender  hands  and  loving  eyes 

To  the  brave  soldier  in  his  agonies. 

v. 

What  then  to  him  the  drum-beat,  and  the  blare 

Of  bugles,  or  th'  impetuous  shock  of  war 
When  raging  armies  mingle,  and  red  glare 

The  volleying  lines,  and,  like  a  pestilent  star, 
The  howling  shell  bursts  through  the  smoking  air, 

And  scatters  death  around  him  and  afar? 
To  him  alike  are  friend  and  foe,  who  hears 
The  battle-clamor  ring  in  dying  ears. 

VI. 

No  more  the  light  tattoo  shall  bid  him  rest. 
And  distant  bugles  lull  to  slumbers  deep ; 

The  musket  to  his  side  is  feebly  press' d 
By  hands  still  faithful  to  the  charge  they  keep; 

And  oozing  from  the  calm,  heroic  breast, 
Life  slips  away  into  eternal  sleep. 

But  O,  the  death-pang  that  shall  break  the  hearts 

Of  those  who  love,  when  such  a  soul  departs  ! 


ii2  A  NEW  YEAR'S  RHYME. 

VII. 

Come,  Peace,  with  healing  on  thy  sacred  wings, 
Love  in  thy  breast,  and  promise  in  thine  eyes  ; 

To  thee  the  mourning  heart  exultant  springs, 
To  thee  the  fainting  soul  rejoicing  flies. 

Come!    By  the  blasted  hearth  no  longer  sings 
The  merry  cricket.     Bid  the  cottage  rise  ; 

Rebuild  the  hearth ;  the  wasted  lands  restore, 

And  curl  the  vines  'round  every  happy  door. 

VIII. 

Under  thy  gentle  reign  we'll  beat  our  spears 
To  pruning-hooks,  our  swords  to  prospering  plows ; 

Keep  for  parades  our  surplus  Brigadiers, 
And  thatch  their  bomb-proof  heads  with  laurel  boughs 

Have  all  contractors  shot  by  volunteers ; 
Hang  those  who  steal  more  than  the  law  allows ; 

Give  Merit  office,  order  Truth  a  bust, 

And  swear  to  honest  incomes — if  we  must ! 

IX. 

Deliver  us  from  draft,  debt  and  the  devil, 
The  tax  collector,  and  the  provost  guard ; 

On  money-changers,  who  refuse  to  level 
Greenbacks  and  gold,  be  thou  exceeding  hard ; 

In  thy  great  mercy  take  them  from  this  evil, 
Misbegotten  world,  and  great  be  thy  reward ! 

Not,  Maid  of  Olives,  that  we  lust  for  lucre, 

Or  cheat  at  any  game  ourselves  but  euchre. 

x. 

For  we're  indifferent  honest — say  the  least — 
Stick  to  our  sects,  our  parties  and  gregarious 

Professions,  whereby  men  are  skinned  and  fleeced, 
Through  arts  as  wondrous  as  they're  neat  and  various ; 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  RHYME.  113 

We  pay  our  doctor  roundly  and  our  priest, 

The  one  to  kill,  the  other  prompt  to  bury  us ; 
And  when  we  can  not  lodge  him  unawares, 
We  kick  the  devil  down  the  kitchen  stairs. 

XI. 

We  are  not  as  the  heathen  herd  who  bend 

The  knee  to  Baal,  and  live  in  huts  and  caves, 
Who,  when  they  have  a  killing  of  foe  and  friend, 

Feed  on  their  flesh  to  save  the  expense  of  graves. 
We  pity  them  afar-off,  and  we  send 

Bibles  and  missionaries  to  the  knaves, 
To  teach  them  that  among  us  'tis  as  common  a 
Thing, — but  not  so  bad  if  done  by  Jomini. 

XII. 

We  keep  the  ten  commandments,  and  we  keep 

The  'leventh  also,  when  our  neighbors  let  us; 
We  doubly  love  them  if  their  purse  be  deep, 

And  in  their  testaments  they  don't  forget  us ; 
But  we  can't  love  the  negro,  though  he  steep 

His  skin  in  all  the  sweet  dews  of  Hymettus, 
Or  own  a  clam-bank  stretch'd — well,  for  that  matter  as 
Par's  Pass'maquoddy's  distant  from  Cape  Hatteras. 

XIII. 

If,  therefore,  we're  afflicted  for  his  sake, 

Hence  from  our  sight,  fair  Maid  of  Olives,  fly  ! 
What  can  a  martyr  suffer  more  than  bake, 

Or  what  a  white  man  more  than  fight  and  die? 
Our  chance  in  war  another  year  will  take, 

And  Richmond  also — leastwise,  we  will  try. 
And  if  with  Grant  to  lead  we  can't  go  through  it, 
Then  never  will  a  Yankee-doodle  do  it.* 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  RHYME. 


XIV. 

The  war  must  end  .   .  .  and  so  must  end  this  verse. 

If  you're  the  better  for  it,  it  is  well ; 
If  not,  thank  Heaven  there's  nothing  in  it  worse. 

Farewell  the  sandal-shoon,  the  scallop  shell ! 
Vain  world  adieu ! — a  blessing  or  a  curse 

Would  make  no  difference; — and  so  farewell 
Peace,  War,  Love,  Hatred,  Joy  and  Tears  : 
Ye  are  the  wretched  substance  of  the  Years. 


*See  Fitz  Green  Halleck's  "Fanny." 


THE   FARMER. 


E  dwells  among  the  rugged  hills, 

And  tills  the  fertile  soil ; 
His  hands  are  hard,  his  muscles  knit 

To  manliness,  by  toil. 
He  may  not  have  the  easy  grace 


That  fashion  can  impart, 
But  in  his  sun-browned  face  is  seen 

The  goodness  of  his  heart ; 
And  few  of  those  who  walk  the  sod 
Are  better  noblemen  of  God. 

Trained  up  in  blamelessness  of  thought, 

He  leads  a  happy  life ; 
His  heart  is  in  his  peaceful  home. 

His  ways  averse  to  strife. 
Free  as  the  air  that  cools  his  brow, 

He  spurns  oppression's  rod ; 
His  rule  of  life — true  love  to  man, 

Implicit  faith  in  God. 
Hope  ever  proves  his  faithful  friend. 
And  all  his  acts  his  life  commend. 

Years  will  depart,  and  cares  increase. 

His  form  be  bowed  with  age— 
Yet  nought  diminish  of  the  man, 

While  adding  to  the  sage. 
And  the\-  shall  say  of  him,  when  dead — 

And  say  without  constraint : 
"So  bright  an  ornament  to  man 

Is  canonized  a  Saint ; 
And  few  who  on  our  earth  have  trod 
Were  better  noblemen  of  God." 


BY   THE   SEA-SIDE. 


sound  of  the  surf  of  the  sand-making  ocean, 
The  sails  of  the  ships  on  the  shimmering  sea, 
Bring  back  to  my  mind  the  long  days  of  devotion 
I  gave  by  the  sea-side  to  love  and  to  thee. 

'Twas  homage  man  pays,  and  but  once,  to  a  woman, 
A  love  that  would  forfeit  the  world  for  a  kiss, 

Ay,  and  heaven  itself,  with  its  joys  superhuman, 
To  catch  from  her  smile  but  one  moment  of  bliss. 

How  strong  was  the  spell  of  thy  presence  !    Days  ended 
In  weeks,  and  weeks  glided  to  months  of  repose  ; 

And  time — it  was  measured  by  sunbeams  that  blended 
Their  light  with  the  dew  and  the  pink  of  the  rose. 


Well,  'tis  past !  that  wild  waltz  of  the  heart,  to  whose  measure 

IvOve's  pulses  beat  madly,  till  being  became 
A  thing  of  too  exquisite  rapture  for  pleasure, 

And  sharper  than  hunger,  and  fiercer  than  flame. 


BY   THE   SEASIDE. 


117 


I  chide  thee !    No,  no !    Let  them  bear  all  the  shame  of  it 
Who  chilled  thy  young  heart  with  an  infinite  fear  ; 

I  forget  not,  though  rashly  I  gave  thee  the  blame  of  it, 
That  the  spoil  of  a  heart  was  atoned  by  a  tear. 

Like  a  bride  of  the  East  in  her  splendor  they  made  thee, 

With  cluster  of  jewels  and  cunning  of  gold ; 
Had  they  seen  in  what  robes  the  dark  years  have  arrayed  thee, 

Xor  wealth  would  have  purchased,  nor  beauty  been  sold. 

Men  worshipped,  maids  envied,  as  up  to  the  altar, 
Pale  wonder  of  sweetness,  they  led  thee  a  bride, 

Nor  dreamed  they  who  heard  thy  lips  quiver  and  falter, 
That  the  flower  of  thy  young  life  there  withered  and  died. 

And  now,  like  the  perfume  of  roses  long  faded, 
That  vision  of  loveliness  comes  from  the  past, 

But  the  eyes  that  entreated,  the  lips  that  upbraided, 
No  more  shall  reproach  thee — O,  broken  at  last ! 

Should  the  sails  of  these  ships  by  the  tempest  be  shredded. 

The  strong  ribs  be  crushed  by  the  sea  in  its  rage, 
The  wreck  were  no  greater  than  thine,  who  wert  wedded, 

To  folly  in  youth  and  misfortune  in  age. 

What  haunt  of  the  city  conceals  thy  grey  sorrow? 

Thy  children  they  cry  in  the  streets  for  their  bread; 
And  for  thee  there  remains  no  bright  hope  for  the  morrow, 

But  only  the  peace  of  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 


SONNET. 

HILD  of  my  heart !    Ideal  of  my  dreams  ! 

Thou  pattern  of  all  gentleness  and  love ! 

My  heart  flies  to  thee,  as  the  pining  dove 
Flies  to  its  mate  ;  and  when  life  busiest  seems, 
And  the  hot  brain,  o'ertasked  with  thickening  schemes, 


Reels  with  perplexities,  one  thought  of  thee, 
One  blessed  thought,  that  thou  dost  keep  for  me 
Thy  heart's  choice  treasures,  e'en  as  limpid  streams 
Their  cooling  waters  for  the  parching  plains  ; 
That  in  thy  heart's  most  consecrated  shrine 
I  have  a  dwelling  place,  most  fondly  mine, 
Straightway  my  soul  her  wonted  power  regains, 
And  Hope's  bright  promises  upon  me  shine 
In  the  sweet  consciousness  that  thou  art  wholly  mine. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


O  Fans  Blandusice!  splendidior  vitro. — HORAT. 


N  this  uncultivated  wild, 

Where  Nature's  lavish  hand  is  seen, 
The  gloomy,  tender,  rugged,  mild, 
Profusion's  endless  change  of  green, 
One  charm  alone  could  add  a  grace, 
Adorn,  refresh,  sustain  and  bless, 
And  that — the  beauty  of  the  place — 
The  fountain  in  the  wilderness. 


From  the  cleft  granite  in  the  hill, 

Whose  jutting  front  gnarled  roots  entwine. 
Through  fissures  numberless  distill 

Thy  waters.  Fountain  of  the  Pine ! 
What  skill  hath  wrought  thy  urn  of  white. 
And  crowned  its  rim  with  flowers,  whose  hue 
Is  varied  as  the  rainbow's  light, 
And  as  the  rainbow,  transient,  too. 

Calm,  placid  fountain  !  who  can  gaze 

In  thy  clear  waters,  and  behold 
The  mid-day  sun's  untarnished  rays 

Reflected  back  in  hues  of  gold, 
And  not  rejoice  that  heavenly  worth, 

Though  found  in  plain  and  humble  guise, 
May  send  its  brilliancy  from  earth 

In  heightened  splendor  to  the  skies. 


120  THE    FOUNTAIN    IN    THE    WILDERNESS. 

How  pure,  how  lucent,  how  serene, 

Thy  ceaseless  waters  leap  to  light, 
Like  crystal  in  the  sunlight  seen, 

Whose  brightness  dazzles  on  the  sight. 
Thou  prototype  of  purity  ! 

Of  peace  th'  example  'mid  unrest, 
O,  teach  me  what  the  heart  may  be 

By  virtue,  love  and  peace  possess' d. 

In  ages  past,  ere  yet  the  East 

Had  heard  of  our  far  western  world ; 
Ere  kingdoms  rose,  that  since  have  ceased, 

And  empires  —  since  in  min  hurled  ; 
Calmly  thy  waters  welled  to  view, 

And  glided  through  their  pebbled  way, 
Reflecting  heaven's  unfading  blue 

As  clear  and  truly  as  to-daj-. 

The  antlered  deer  and  timid  doe 

Came  hither  in  the  olden  days, 
And  on  thy  even  face  below 

Delighted  much  and  long  to  gaze ; 
And  of  thy  limpid  waters  quaff 'd, 

While  fawns  in  transports  bounded  by, 
Safe  from  the  quick,  invidious  shaft, 

And  the  red  huntsman's  searching  eye. 

Here,  too,  the  tawny  lovers  came, 

And  wooed  in  accents  now  unknown, 
When  the  round  moon  —  a  shield  of  flame  - 

In  summer's  milder  evenings  shone. 
What  raptures,  what  delights  of  love. 

Melted  and  thrilled  the  savage  breast. 
When  lips,  that  torture  could  not  move, 

Faltered  with  vows  half  unexpressed. 


THE    FOUNTAIN    IN   THE   WILDERNESS.  123 

The  music  of  thy  flow,  how  sweet 

To  their  untuned,  untutored  ears, 
While  they,  in  turn,  the  tale  repeat 

Of  cherished  hopes  and  vanished  fears. 
Thy  ripple  low,  the  winds  above, 

The  swaying  boughs,  the  sighing  streams, 
Repeat  the  story  of  their  love, 

Till  love  in  every  murmur  seems. 

I  see  him  now  !  the  warrior  chief, 

Proud,  haughty,  stern,  the  fearless  foe, 
Whose  vengeance  is  a  kept  belief, 

Whose  rage,  no  momentary  glow — 
Retreating  from  the  hard-fought  field, 

Defiance  flashing  from  his  eye, 
Though  vanquished,  yet  untaught  to  yield, 

Though  conquered,  yet  disdains  to  fly : 

I  see  him,  thirsty,  bleeding,  haste 

To  thee,  O  Fountain  of  the  Pine  ! 
(How  sweet  thy  cooling  balm  to  taste, 

And  on  thy  flowery  verge  recline  : ) 
He  kneels  !  he  drinks  !  O  blessed  fount ! 

How  quick  to  cool  heat's  raging  flame, 
T'  allay,  to  soothe,  if  not  surmount, 

The  pangs  that  rack  his  quivering  frame. 

No  more  revenge,  like  poison,  burns, 

Nor  rage,  nor  hatred  fires  his  breast ; 
To  heaven  his  eye  undaunted  turns, 

And  to  his  brow  his  hand  is  press' d. 
His  heart  is  with  his  thoughts,  and  they  — 

Unchanged  in  death  as  fixed  through  life — 
Are  with  his  children  now  at  play, 

And  her,  his  dark-eved  Indian  wife. 


THE    FOUNTAIN   IN   THE   WILDERNESS. 


These  scenes  have  passed :  no  more  beside 

Thy  pleasant  waters  shall  they  meet, 
The  tawny  lover  and  his  bride, 

To  woo  and  wed  in  accents  sweet ; 
No  more  the  huntsman's  shaft  shall  pierce 

The  antlered  deer  and  timid  doe, 
Nor  hostile  chiefs,  in  conflict  fierce, 

Shout  triumph  o'er  a  prostrate  foe. 

Perished  a  race  that  well  deserved 

A  better  fate,  a  lasting  name ; 
No  record  of  those  deeds  preserved, 

That  well  were  worth  eternal  fame : 
To  them  no  tribute  do  we  pay — 

Those  heroes  of  the  olden  days! 
Except  such  sympath}-  as  may 

Adorn  a  poet's  idle  lays. 

But  thou,  O  fountain! — tranquil  fount! 

Hast  seen  them:  would  thou  hadst  a  tongue. 
Their  perished  hist'ry  to  recount, 
What  tales  they  told,  what  heroes  sung. 

Canst  thou  the  secret  not  disclose? 

Vain  babbler !  what  to  thee  were  they  ? 
Or  what  am  I  who  now  propose 
Such  questions?  canst  thou  tell  me?  sa\- 

O  Fountain  in  the  Wilderness ! 

Henceforth  let  others  learn  from  thee: 
Not  all  we  see  should  we  confess, 

Nor  all  confess  that  others  see. 
To  harbor  peace  within  the  breast, 

To  draw  from  all  their  sweetest  grace; 
Like  thee,  be  calm  amid  unrest, 

And  wear,  like  thee,  a  pleasant  face. 


THE    UNRETURNING. 


comes  again  in  beauty    unto  earth, 
In  all  her  recesses  of  light  and  shade, 
The  joy  of  sunshine  and  the  mellow  rain. 
E'en  querulous  Age,  leaning  upon  his  staff, 
Peers  from  dim  eyes  to  welcome  her  return, 
And  wrinkles  his  lean  features  into  smiles  ; 
And  lusty  youth,  with  song  and  madrigal, 
Goes  forth  to  meet  her  in  the  budding  groves, 
And  with  rejoicings,  follows  where  her  steps 
Awake  the  slumbering  beaut}'  of  the  flowers. 
No  more,  O!  never  more,  will  her  return 
Bring  back  the  joys  of  recollected  days, 
Though,  sitting  on  the  sun-cro\vned  hill,  she  sing 
"  Rejoice,  rejoice,  O  Love,  rejoice  with  me  ! 
Rejoice  and  come  with  me,  for  now  the  fir 
Drops  balsam,  and  the  tender  leaf  appears, 
The  sweet  young  corn  puts  out  its  tiny  blade, 
The  elm  its  buds,  and  every  vine  its  green  ; 
Rejoice  and  come  with  me  ;  the  coppice  yields 
The  balm  of  waxen  calyx  swol'n  with  life, 
And  all  the  dells  are  fiery  with  the  rose, 
And  all  the  meres  with  cowslips  turn  to  gold. 
"Rejoice,  rejoice,  O  Love,  rejoice  with  me!" 
No  more  th'  accustomed  haunt,  the  populous  grove, 
Full  of  young  life  and  old  decay,  where  glint 
Innumerable  wings  through  interlacing  boughs, 
Shall  he  revisit  for  whom  love  now  mourns, 
Sitting  with  folded  wings  beside  his  grave; 
Who  waned  in  dawning,  like  a  morning  star, 
In  the  full  flush  of  the  unclouded  dav. 


AS   I    LOVE. 


O  you  love  as  I  love? 

Do  you  cherish  the  flame 
That  trembles  to  brightness 

At  thought  of  her  name  ? 
Is  it  secret,  confiding, 


Unshaken,  abiding, 
All  frailties  hiding? 
Then  you  love  as  I  love. 

Do  5-011  love  as  I  love? 

Do  your  thoughts  ever  run, 
Like  rivers  to  ocean, 

To  center  in  one? 
Is  it  constant,  concealing 
In  words,  not  in  feeling, 
But  in  blushes  revealing? 

Then  j-ou  love  as  I  love.jj 


•  ii'.n 


MORNING    ON    MARYLAND    RIGHTS. 

[1862.] 

ITAR  of  the  rosy  dawn,  upon  thy  face 
The  shepherds  of  Chaldea  turned  their  eyes, 
As  o'er  the  windy  hills  their  flocks  they  led, 
And  glimmering  up  the  misty  steeps  of  night 
The  faint  dawn  trembled,  till  the  luminous  air 

Took  to  itself  thy  glory,  and  afar 

On  crest  and  cliff  and  solemn  pinnacle 

Burned  the  full  splendor  of  the  risen  morn. 

Their  eyes  behold  thee  not,  but  still  thy  path 

Thou  hold'st  in  heaven,  and  still  thy  holy  beams 

Shine  on  the  faces  and  the  homes  of  men. 

They  came  and  .worshipped  thee,  and  passed  away — 

Before  them  thou,  and  thou  when  they  were  not. 

The  fire-eyed  eagle,  clasping  with  lean  claws 
The  wint'ry  crag  that  earliest  takes  the  sun, 
Ere  yet  the  rounded  world  swings  full  to  thee, 
Or  the  white  morning's  glistening  sandals  track 
The  mountain  slopes,  lifts  his  imperial  wing, 
And,  through  the  infinite  blue,  a  lessening  form 
Goes  forth  to  meet  thee  on  thy  rosy  way. 
The  old  woods  and  the  ancient  solitudes 
Thy  influence  feel ;  and  when  with  gracious  light 
Thou  fillest  the  hazy  spaces  of  the  East, 
The  brooding  spirit  of  the  Almighty  moves 
The  billowy  depths  of  ocean  and  of  air, 
And  the  majestic  wilderness  rolls  back 
The  sounding  anthem  of  the  chanting  sea. 


128  MORNING   ON   MARYLAND   MIGHTS. 

How  like  a  spirit  of  light  thou  springest  up, 
Leading  the  archer  with  his  silver  bow 
And  quiver  of  night-scattering  arrows,  o'er 
These  rugged  hights,  whose  everlasting  fronts 
Stand  sentinel  to  the  pathways  of  the  world. 
Or  whether  named  of  him,  (as  poets  feign  ) 
The  charmed  astronomer  who  nightly  viewed 
The  circling  heavens  from  Atlas ;  nor  had  ceased 
Till  now  his  patient  vigils  on  that  lonely  mount, 
But  by  an  horrid  tempest  seized,  was  whirled 
Through  howling  darkness  to  the  void : — or  called 
Of  that  fair  boy  the  sea-born  beauty  wooed 
With  kisses  and  entreaties  in  the  groves 
Of  famed  Idalia  : — thou  art  still  the  same 
Unto  the  redbreast  that,  from  thickets  wild, 
Singest  thy  coming.     Neither  he  alone : 
The  wilderness  awakes,  and  from  its  depths 
The  angels  of  the  morning  call  to  thee. 
The  children  of  the  mountain  and  the  vale, 
The  old  divinities  of  groves  and  streams, 
Th'  inhabitants  of  animate  wilds,  fair  forms 
Of  grace  and  beaut}',  born  of  heaven  to  dwell 
By  cooling  fountains  and  in  forest  glades, 
Rejoice  in  thee,  and  through  the  pleasant  land 
Make  merry  morning,  breathing  unto  thee 
The  feasting  sweetness  of  Arcadian  flutes. 

II. 

Fair  is  thy  light,  and  fair  the  tender  dawn 

Thou  usherest  in — alas !  no  more  to  bring 

The  days  when  Peace  went  singing  through  the  land. 

No  more,  O  frosty  London,  from  thy  hights 

Descending  to  the  sea-green  river's  shore, 

Nor  yet  by  thee,  watering  a  fruitful  vale, 

Bright  Shenandoah,  shall  she  come  to  dwell, 


MORNING   ON    MARYLAND    RIGHTS. 

Pleas' d  with  the  fattening  herds,  the  prospering  share, 
And  the  3*oung  corn  with  promise  bourgeoning  out. 
War's  trumpets  wake  the  hills,  and  volleying  roll 
The  throbbing  thunders  of  contending  guns ; 
The  far-off  mountains,  purple-peaked  or  veiled 
In  deeper  blue  than  heaven,  send  harshly  back 
Their  angry  echoes,  roaring  through  the  vale. 

O  mother  of  the  mighty  dead !  who  hast 

In  thy  blind  rage  reversed  thy  glorious  shield, 

Exalting  over  Liberty  the  heel 

Of  the  mail'd  Despot,  how  shalt  thou  repent 

In  tears  and  blood  thy  unexampled  crime. 

No  happy  star  leads  up  thy  day  of  peace . 

But,  miserable,  from  thy  stormy  skies 

Rain  famine,  pestilence  and  death,  as  once 

The  Florentine  beheld,  in  nether  woe, 

Dilated  flakes  of  slow-consuming  marl 

Fall  scorching  on  th'  unhappy,  doom'd  to  fire. 

As  thou  that  sittest  in  the  clefted  rocks, 

Once  haughty  village,  shall  her  cities  be, 

And  o'er  deserted  streets  and  shattered  walls 

Shall  Desolation  reign  with  stony  eye, 

To  smite  her  children  with  remorse  and  shame, 

Remembering  how,  to  foul  rebellion  given, 

Ungodly  lust  of  power,  and  pride  of  blood, 

They  lost  the  priceless  heritage  of  man — 

The  unity  of  liberty  and  law. 

But  thou,  fair  star,  that  even  as  I  gaze, 

Dost  fade  in  light  more  glorious  than  thine  own, 

Be  thou  the  emblem  of  my  Fatherland. 

Though  round  these  hights  the  bellowing  tempest  break, 

And  from  its  rocky  bed  the  whirlwind  tear 

The  sinewy  oak  and  twist  the  pliant  fir, 


I3C 


MORNING   ON    MARYLAND    MIGHTS. 


And  like  the  gloomy  smoke  of  battle  whirl, 

From  steaming  gorges  and  surcharged  ravines, 

The  pluming  mists,  through  which  the  lightnings  leap 

A  tangled  flame — thou,  in  thy  sphere  serene, 

Rollest  in  light,  obscured  but  never  dimmed, 

Above  the  warring  elements,  and  bring' st 

Day,  and  the  golden  calm  of  summer  skies, 

To  be  a  sweet  awakening  to  the  world. 


SUMMER   DAYS. 

X  summer,  when  the  day's  were  long, 
We  walked  together  in  the  wood; 

Our  heart  was  light,  our  step  was  strong  ; 
Sweet  flutterings  then  were  in  our  blood, 

In  summer  when  the  days  were  long. 


We  strayed  from  morn  till  evening  came ; 

We  gathered  flowers  and  wove  us  crowns ; 
We  walked  'mid  poppies  red  as  flame, 

Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs ; 
And  always  wished  our  lives  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 

We  leaped  the  hedge-row,  crossed  the  brook 

And  still  her  voice  flowed  forth  in  song, 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book, 

In  summer  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees, 

With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon  ; 

And  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze 
We  rested  many  a  gorgeous  June, 

While  larks  were  singing  o'er  the  leas. 

We  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not — 

For  loving  seemed  like  breathing  then ; 

We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot ; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men, 

And  dreamed  of  God  in  grove  and  grot. 


SUMMER    DAYS. 


In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
Alone  I  wander, — muse  alone — 

I  see  her  not ;  but  that  old  song 

Under  the  fragrant  wind  is  blown, 

In  summer  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood ; 

But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs  ; 
And  half  I  see,  so  glad  and  good, 

The  honest  daylight  of  her  eyes, 
That  charmed  me  under  earlier  skies. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
I  love  her  as  we  loved  of  old  ; 

My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong; 

For  love  brings  back  those  hours  of  gold 

In  summer  when  the  days  are  long. 


A  SUBURBAN  HOME. 


Happy  is  he  who  hath  his  chosen 

home 

Set  in  a  corner  of  the  noisy  world 
Not  so  remote  from  business  and  the 

marts 
Wherein  all  commerce  thrives,  as  to 

have  lost 
Man's  interest  in  men,  nor  yet  so 

near 
As  quite  to  lose  remembrance  of 

clear  skies, 
The  infinite  tenderness  of  heaven's 

blue, 
And  the  fresh  world  that  year  by 

year  renews 

An  Eden  lovely  as  the  angels  saw 
Who  guarded  its  white  gates  with 

flaming  swords. 


THE    AVOWAL. 


|jF  love  be  the  devotion  of  a  soul, 
That,  with  the  world  to  choose  from,  yet  returns 

i  Slave  of  thy  wish,  and  prisoner  at  thy  will, 
And  bids  thee  bind  him  with  thy  stronger  chain, 
Then  love  I  thee ;  and  lacking  fitter  words, 
Mine  actions  leave  to  plead  my  further  cause. 


PROTEAN    DUST. 

R  whether  on  the  mountain  height, 

Or  in  the  valley  deep, 
It  matters  not,  where  falls  the  night, 

When  weary  mortals  sleep 
Their  final  sleep.    Their  dust  shall  be 

The  dust  of  other  men, 
And  mixed  in  Nature's  alchemy, 

Yet  walk  the  earth  again. 
In  vain  the  loftiest  pyramid, 

The  costliest  crypt  and  tomb; 
The  earth  that  vanity  has  hid, 
Shall  add  to  leaf  and  bloom. 
The  monarch's  dust,  perchance,  shall  feed 

The  peasant's  violet, 
The  beggar's  from  its  suffering  freed, 
In  royal  halls  be  set. 


THE    EARLY    DEAD. 

HEY  grow  not  old,  the  loved  who  perish  }-oung 
They  are  forever  beautiful :  the  years, 
The  blight  of  sorrow,  and  the  waste  of  grief, 
The  canker  of  affliction  and  the  cares 

That  creep  on  our  decrepitude,  may  wreak 

On  us  their  ravages,  until,  o'erspent, 

The  weary  frame  drops  stiffened  to  the  dust ; 

But  they  who,  in  the  blossom  of  their  years, 

Depart  in  all  their  glory,  and  go  down 

In  the  full  flush  of  beauty  to  the  grave, 

Can  never  know  the  slow  decline  of  age ; 

It  hath  no  power  upon  them ;  but,  afar, 

Transplanted  to  the  Paradise  of  Faith, 

And  made  immortal  in  their  innocence, 

Their  purity  and  loveliness,  they  bloom, 

Rare  as  the  fruits  of  famed  Hesperides, 

Beyond  the  changes  and  the  wrath  of  Time. 

They  grow  not  old,  the  loved  who  perish  young ; 

Though  in  the  valleys  green  where  lie  their  forms 

At  sleep  among  the  daisies,  the  heaped  mounds 

Sink  level  with  the  surface  of  the  plain, 

And  the  white  stone,  the  kind  memorial 

Of  mourning  love  for  a  departed  love, 

Gathers  upon  its  face  the  mold  of  years ; 

E'en  though  their  resting-place  the  trackless  winds 

May  seek,  but  vainly  ;  and  the  plow-boy  turn 

With  the  bright  share  the  turf  above  their  rest. 


138  THE    EARLY    DEAD. 

Unconscious,  as  he  sings  his  roundelay, 
Of  forms  than  his  more  fair  that  sleep  below : 
Still,  in  our  hearts  they  hold  remembrance, 
And  in  our  dreams  do  they  revisit  us ; 
And  through  the  golden  glory  of  the  Past, 
Like  pictures  mellowed  by  the  glaze  of  age, 
The  patterns  of  the  beauty  still  appear 
More  precious  as  they  seem  to  gather  grace, 
More  beautiful  as  we  decay ;  as  \ve  grow  old, 
More  dearly  loved  for  memories  they  bring. 

I  now  bethink  me  of  a  gentle  one, 
So  pure  she  might  be  canonized  a  saint, 
Who  came  to  us  as  an  exceeding  joy, 
Who  left  us  in  a  most  exceeding  grief. 
She  was  our  lily ;  and  the  angels  loved  it, 
Who  did  divide  with  us  a  tender  charge 
Until  it  budded  ;  and  we  hoped  to  see 
The  beauty  of  its  blossom.     But,  one  day 
In  the  deep  glory  of  a  flowering  May, 
The  bright  immortals  from  the  Hills  of  Bliss 
Came  down  into  the  garden  of  our  love ; 
And  so  did  they  prefer  that  perfect  bud, 
And  so  enamored  were  they  of  its  grace, 
And  so  they  valued  it  above  all  others, 
That  they  did  breathe  upon  it ;  and  our  lily 
Became,  henceforth,  immortal  in  its  bloom. 


A  RETROSPECT. 


ACKWARD  o'er  the  past  I  look, 
And,  as  written  in  a  book, 
All  my  life  before  me  lies. 
Seal,  O  Heaven,  its  mysteries  ! 
Let  no  eye  its  pages  scan 


Without  charity  for  man ; 
Let  no  tongue  its  secrets  tell 
That  love  hath  not  tempered  well , 
Let  no  judge,  with  mien  severe, 
On  my  acts  hold  inquest  here. 
Lord  of  Life !  them  knowest  best — 
In  thy  mercy  will  I  rest. 


HOME. 

IO  him  who  is  aweary  of  the  strife, 
The  disappointment  after  arduous  toil — 
[Which  is  ambition's  fruit;  who  wears  the.  weeds 
Of  rooted  sorrows  for  his  vanished  hopes ; 
Whose  young  desires  have  changed  to  stern  resolves 

Who  looks  on  life,  as  the  experienced  brave 

Upon  the  battle-field — to  such,  how  sweet, 

How  more  than  holy  is  the  tender  light, 

Lingering  like  flame  on  a  deserted  shrine, 

Around  the  spot  where  Peace  nursed  his  young  soul 

In  the  untroubled  lap  of  Innocence ! 

O,  if  the  heart  can  cling,  amid  the  change, 

The  wreck  and  desolation  of  all  things, 

With  the  true  fondness  of  a  mother's  love, 

To  anything — of  time,  of  form  or  place — 

To  anything  worth  human  adoration, 

It  is  to  HOME — the  circle  of  all  joys, 

The  charm  of  Heaven,  the  talisman  of  hearts ! 

Sweet  to  the  seaman's  eye  when  from  afar, 

After  long  voyages  on  tempestuous  seas, 

Through  indistinctness  visible,  the  hills, 

Dear  to  his  heart  by  many  memories — 

The  blue-crowned  hills,  amid  whose  peaceful  vales 

Nestles  in  sunshine  his  parental  roof, 

First  o'er  the  waters  rise  upon  his  sight. 

Sweet  to  the  pilgrim,  long  in  stranger  lands, 

Though  it  be  humble  as  a  wrecker's  cot, 

The  welcome  outlines  of  his  early  home. 


HOME. 


141 


The  reverend  patriarch— who  went  forth  from  thence 

Strong  in  the  manhood  of  untarnished  hopes — 

Beholds  with  fondness  and  a  child's  delight, 

The  homely  walls  that  guarded  from  the  world 

His  helplessness  and  his  unfolding  prime. 

Dear  to  the  matron — who  went  forth  from  thence 

Crowned  with  the  garlands  of  a  virgin  bride, 

Amid  the  mirth  of  rustic  revelry, 

The  greetings  of  young  hearts  and  happy  lips — 

Is  her  return  to  the  sequestered  spot, 

When,  like  the  roses  by  the  moss-grown  wall, 

She  blushed  to  beauty  'midst  its  rural  charms. 

Once  more  in  childhood's  home !  O,  blest  retreat ! 

Asylum  for  the  weary-worn  of  life, 

Thou  refuge  for  the  broken-hearted  child, 

Restorer  of  lost  peace  to  troubled  breasts, 

Thou  kind  protector  of  insulted  worth, 

Friend  of  the  hapless  whom  the  world  reviles, 

The  temple  and  the  guardian  of  love  ; 

Thou  Paradise  on  earth,  whose  portals  close 

Against  the  bitterness  of  strife  and  scorn, 

Against  the  rudeness  of  a  selfish  world, 


Against  unfeeling  jeers  and  cold  repulse,  . 

Against  all  that  makes  misery  more  deep, 

Or  mars  the  happiness  of  virtuous  joy — 

What  charms  like  thine  can  bind  the  heart  of  man. 

With  spells  of  pleasant  memories  and  dreams, 

To  hallow  with  the  reverence  of  love, 

Above  all  other  objects  of  desire, 

The  altar  of  the  household  of  his  youth? 


ELLULA. 

OSY,  cheerful,  happy  child 

Was  Ellula  of  the  wild  ! 

Raised  where  naught  but  forests  are 

By  a  hardy  forester. 

All  unknown  to  other  eyes 


Than  the  stars  that  gem  the  skies ; 
Nightingale  of  Northern  bowers, 
Queen  and  sister  to  the  flowers ; 
Nimble,  timid  as  a  fawn, 
Lightly  leaping  o'er  a  lawn  ; 
Cheeks  as  ruddy  as  the  dawn  ; 
Parian  brow,  where  curls  of  gold 
Wavy,  wanton,  richly  rolled; 
Eyes  as  blue  as  skies  above, 
Liquid,  lucent,  lurking  love  ; 
Heart  of  charity,  and  tongue 
Never  speaking  others'  wrong ; 
Voice  whose  every  note  was  song — 
Such  was  my  Ellula,  when 
Sober  Autumn  came  again, — 
Like  a  hermit  penance  keeping, 
O'er  his  sins  forever  weeping — 
Then  with  birds  my  darling  flew 
To  a  fairer  climate  too. 

How  much  beauty,  how  much  worth 
Death  hath  taken  from  our  earth  ! 
What  a  gift  to  us  was  given  ! 
What  a  gift  returned  to  Heaven  ! 


J44  ELLULA. 


Like  a  star  in  light  expiring, 
At  the  sun's  approach  retiring, 
Leaving  us  her  name  to  bless, 
Leaving  earth  an  angel  less, 
Giving  Heaven  an  angel  more — 
Better  never  passed  before, 
Either  martyr,  saint  or  maiden 
With  the  balm  for  sorrow  laden, 
Through  the  blissful  gates  of  Aidenn. 

Sweet  Ellula,  blest  Ellula, 

To  the  spring-perennial  Beulah, 

To  the  realm  of  love  and  song, 

Where  was  never  thought  a  wrong, 

Thou  art  gone. — Yet,  though  so  dear, 

I  would  never  wish  thee  here, 

Never — though  the  wish  were  love — 

Wish  thee  from  thy  bliss  above. 

I  shall  greet  thee — not  with  fear : 

I  shall  meet  thee — but  not  here — 

Greet  thee — where  no  cares  can  thwart  us 

Meet  thee — where  no  foes  can  part  us. 

I  shall  come  with  joy  to  thee: 

Thou,  in  sorrow,  ne'er  to  me. 

Till  that  hour,  my  life  will  be 

All  a  dream  of  Heaven  and  thee. 


THE   FLOWER   ANGELS. 

PON  the  seven-hued  iris  sits  the  queen 
Of  dews,  the  diamonds  that  the  tearful  naiads  bear, 
In  elfin  urns,  to  jewel  all  the  flowers: 
The  crimped  petals  of  the  tinted  buds 
They,  leaf  by  leaf   unfold,  and  bend  the  rays 


Of  the  rich  sunlight  on  their  tiny  heads, 
And  with  their  delicate  wings  fan  the  fresh  air 
On  the  unconscious  beauties,  as  a  mother  bends 
And  breathes  upon  the  features  of  her  sleeping  child. 


WAITING  TO  DIE. 


ONELY  the  hearthstone, 
Silent  the  halls, 

Faded  the  pictures 
Hung  on  the  walls. 

Rusty  the  door-hinge, 


Pathways  grass-grown — 
O.  it  is  weary 

Dwelling  alone ! 


Sadly  he  goeth — 
Thus  do  they  say — 
Locks,  once  an  auburn, 
Silvered  and  gray ; 
Feebly  he's  leaning 
Now  on  his  cane, 
Wrinkled  with  sorrows, 
Bending  with  pain. 


Heavily  stepping, 
Stiffened  with  years, 
Sightless  his  dark  eyes, 
Deafened  his  ears, 
Slowly  he  moveth — 
Let  him  pass  by! 
Pity  an  old  man 
Waiting  to  die. 


THE  LOVED  ONES  AFAR. 
[SONG.] 

i. 
HEN  night  winds  are  wailing, 

Like  spirits  in  thrall, 
And  death  walks  in  darkness 
Through  hamlet  and  hall ; 
Kind  Angels  of  Mercy, 
Wherever  they  are, 
Watch  over  the  slumbers 
Of  loved  ones  afar — 
Our  heart's  dearest  treasures, 
The  loved  ones  afar. 

n. 
Where'er  they  may  wander, 

O'er  land  or  o'er  sea, 
Thou,  Father  of  Angels, 

We  trust  them  with  thee ! 
Be  Thou  to  earth's  pilgrims 

The  day-beam  and  star, 
The  staff  of  the  weary 

To  loved  ones  afar. 

in. 
While  life  hath  a  pleasure, 

Or  hope  hath  a  cheer ; 
While  the  heart  can  feel  kindness, 

Or  sorrow  a  tear ; 


THE    LOVED    ONES   AFAK. 

I  can  not  forget  them, 

Nor  fail  in  the  prayer, 

That  God  will  watch  over 
The  loved  ones  afar. 

IV. 

The  winter  of  life-time 

May  close  round  in  gloom, 
And  spring  flowers  may  scatter 

Their  leaves  o'er  my  tomb ; 
Yet  still,  through  the  darkness, 

Like  evening's  pale  star, 
My  spirit  will  hover 

O'er  loved  ones  afar — 
Our  heart's  dearest  treasures, 

The  loved  ones  afar. 


OCTOBER. 

JJAZING  o'er  the  wasted  lands, 
Fallow  fields  and  frosted  sands, 
Brown  October  sadly  stands 
Ankle-deep  in  leaves  that  strew 
Wood-land  walks  and  valleys  low. 


THE    UNSEALED   FUTURE. 


URN  not  from  us,  Immortal,  tfiy 

calm  face, 
Nor  in   dull   ears  receive  our 

fervent  prayer. 
With   clear,  cold   eyes  the  years 

to  come  thou  seest, 
The  secrets  that  they  hold,  and  all  our  fates. 
Unseal  thy  lips,  fixed  as  the  Phidian  Jove's, 
Or  with  thy  bloodless  finger  to  our  eyes 
Trace  the  eternal  will,  the  stern  decree, 
That  makes  or  mars  our  lives  that  are  to  be. 
Say  to  what  end  we  live,  that  knowing  this 
We  may  conform  the  order  of  our  lives, 
Nor  blindly  work  the  folly  of  our  wills. 


SONG  OF  PARTING. 


HILE  the  sad  hour  is  flying, 

How  dear  the  spot  appears, 
Where  love,  with  flowers  undying, 

Crowned  all  our  happy  years. 
Companion  dear,  forgive  the  tear 

That  falls  o'er  pleasures  wasting : 
Earth  has  no  cheer  when  thou'rt  not  near, 

Nor  life  a  bliss  worth  tasting. 

Could  fond  desire  detain  thee 

Or  Love  the  moments  stay, 
Affection  still  would  chain  thee, 

And  Time  his  flight  delay. 
Ah,  go  not  yet— each  sad  regret 

But  chides  the  thought  of  starting : 
Too  soon,  alas  !  the  moments  pass 

That  bring  the  hour  of  parting. 

Oh,  why  should  time  deceive  us. 

Or  joys  fly  with  the  years  ? 
Like  April  smiles  they  leave  us, 

And  melt  away  in  tears. 
Companion,  stay — too  soon  the  day 

When  ties  of  love  we  sever ; 
And  still  too  few  the  friendships  true 
Where  hearts  are  linked  forever. 


PIO   NONO. 

\\  *v  Feb-  7,  1878. 

T  was  in  Sinigaglia,   afc,a  shrine 
\     /An  aged  'wvoman  knelt,  and  bow'd  her  head ; 
\Ugbn  her,:^Sce  a^jjorrow  half  divine; 
;  ;Unto  h^fi^ghb^^.Sprrowing  she  said, 

accents,    "the  good  Pope  is  dead!" 

ailed  his  gentle  ways  and  face, 

'1^'  i&&  ~~''~ 

When  jtij.it  an  htrmjile  priest  his  flock  he  fed 
and  exceeding  grace, 

And  tears  fell  fast  as  tenderly 

she  said 

To  sobbing  kindred,   "the  good 
Pope  is  dead  ! ' ' 

What  he  had  done  for  comfort  of 

the  poor, 
The  widow  and  the  orphan, 

and  to  spread 
The  joy  of  heavenly  love  from 

door  to  door, 
This  she  remembered  as,  with 

reverend  head 
She  still  repeated,   "the  good 

Pope  is  dead !" 


Along  the  bay  the  winter  sun 

shone  bright, 
And  o'er  the  crisp  cool  waters 

gayly  sped 
The  lateen  sails,  like  wings  of 

life  and  light 
While  fervently  with  heaven 

her  sad  voice  plead 
For  saintly  glory  for  the  good 

Pope  dead. 


154 


MO  NONO. 


Above  her  rose  the  vast  Cathedral's  dome  ; 
From  niche  and  vault  shone  man}-  a  sculptured  head 

Of  saints  who  toiled  to  build  a  mightier  Rome 
Than  Caesar  knew ;  unheeding  then  she  said, 
Filled  with  his  presence,  "the  good  Pope  is  dead!" 

So  shall  all  people  say,  forgetting  strife, 

As  o'er  the  world  the  mournful  tidings  spread, 

How  well  he  walked  the  thorny  ways  of  life 
And  o'er  the  darkest  paths  the  sweetness  shed 
Of  love  and  gentleness — "the  good  Pope  is  dead." 


FOR  HIS  MERCY  ENDURETH  FOREVER. 


ORD,  in  the  wilderness  are 

many  ways 
For  doubtful  feet,  and  which 

the  right  to  take 
How  may  we  tell,  not  seeing 

the  end  thereof? 
But  this  we  know,  and  this 

our  comfort  is, 

Whether  by  fault  or  weakness  of  the  will 
Our  feet  the  evil  choose,  Thy  love  will 

follow, 

Nor  leave  us  in  the  darkness  quite  alone; 
That  some  time  in  the  awful  silences, 
Our  ear  shall  hear  its  wooing  whisperings, 
And  we  our  wayward  footsteps  turn  to  Thee. 


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